


running with lightning feet

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Discussions of slavery, Families of Choice, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, M/M, Mental Link, Mind Control, Plo Koon Does What He Wants, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), True Mandalorians (Star Wars), because of the Nightsisters' everything, kind of, or the Council, regardless of how many grey hairs it gives his commander, specifically relating to the treatment of males on Dathomir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 161,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Feral gets kidnapped by a Jedi Master. It's the best thing that's ever happened to him.When Maul and Savage find out their brother has been Sith-napped, no one and nothing in the galaxy will stop them from finding him and bringing him home again. Not Sith Emperors giving themselves airs, not Nightsister witches plotting against them, and definitely not a rabble of Jedi and clone commanders who think they know what's best for Feral.
Relationships: CC-3636 | Wolffe/Feral (Star Wars), Feral & Darth Maul & Savage Opress, Padmé Amidala/CC-1010 | Fox, Plo Koon & Feral (Star Wars), Pre-Padmé Amidala/CC-1010 | Fox/Darth Maul, Savage Opress/Sinker (Star Wars)
Comments: 2455
Kudos: 4304
Collections: Absolute favourites, An Assortment of Damn Good Fics, Best of Fanfiction, Star Wars Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> w e l p. i gave myself Zabrak Bros feels, asked for story prompts, and was jumped from behind by this one, courtesy of CherFleur. I may not have slept last night, but I have ideas and a keyboard and I _will_ make that everyone else's problem.

It’s only because of Savage that Feral has even managed to survive this long as a Sith apprentice, so maybe it’s entirely unsurprising that his first mission alone is going to end like this.

Jedi. Not just _a_ Jedi, or even just a Jedi Master, but a member of the High Council. The member, after Obi-Wan Kenobi, who makes Maul curse most viciously, too, and if _Maul_ isn't strong enough to beat him, Feral has absolutely no chance.

Tucked back against the stones of the cliff, Feral eyes the group of transports, the clones, the Jedi Master, and then the distance to the tower he’s supposed to be infiltrating. Mother Talzin and Maul seem to have mostly given up on sending him against armies the way they do Savage, but getting past defenses is something Feral’s good at. He’d thought to prove it, this time, going in alone even though Savage doesn’t like him taking missions while he and Maul are elsewhere. But—

Nothing in the intelligence Mother Talzin gave him mentioned Jedi, and certainly not the 104th Battalion and their general.

Quiet, careful, Feral slips down the face of the cliff, his dusty coloring cover enough in the settling dusk. Savage would rush right in, and Maul would stage his entrance for the most dramatic moment and then slaughter everyone, but—Feral won't manage that. There's no need to kill the troopers, either; what Feral needs are the transmission codes in the broadcasting station beyond them. If he can get past them in the darkness, there should be plenty of time to get through the tower and to the control room before they notice that something’s happened.

The Jedi will be the biggest problem. Feral has no quarrel with Jedi, for the most part; one of them tried to kill Maul, and nearly did, and that puts Feral’s hackles up, but—

He’s not a good Sith. Even after a year with Maul seeing to his training, and Savage helping at every turn, Feral’s still the one who needs to be protected, guided, kept aside while his brothers rush into battle. He doesn’t feel the same anger, has trouble hating. Even Jedi, who it should be easy to loathe.

A loose stone rattles away from Feral’s boot, skids across the lip of rock and clatters down the side of the cliff, and Feral swallows a curse. With a flicker of power, he leaps up, as quick as he can move, and leaps across the gap into the branches of the closest tree. Tucks himself tight against the trunk in the midst of draping moss, then freezes there, waiting.

There's silence, long, tense, and then a curt, “Comet, Boost, check it out,” that carries clearly.

This, at least, Feral has faith he can manage. Hiding from Brother Viscus and the other Nightbrothers as a child was good training, and he stays perfectly still and silent as the pair of clone troopers pass beneath him, the floodlights on their helmets casting wide beams of light across the forest floor.

“Think the commander’s getting jumpy?” one clone asks, joking, and the other snorts.

“You going to tell him that?” he asks dryly. “Anything?”

“Not that I'm seeing.” The lights sweep up, but Feral doesn’t move, hardly breathes as they sweep across his hiding place. There's one moment when he thinks the fall of his robes is going to give him away, that the trooper has noticed—

“Your side?” the clone asks, and his lights fall back to the forest floor.

“Lots of rocks,” the first says, mildly disgusted. “I bet they slide all the time. If Wolffe has us jumping at every shift, this is going to be a karking long deployment.”

“Better than being stuck with the 212th for a month,” is the second’s verdict. It makes the first laugh in clear agreement, and they keep walking, sweeping the perimeter as they go.

Slow, careful, Feral breathes out, then drops lightly to the ground. Remembers Savage’s words in the Nightbrother camp, so long ago— _Feral, try not to draw attention to yourself_ —and smiles a little wryly. _That won't be a problem for me_ , he’d answered, and—it’s still true enough. Simple not to be seen. Simple to slip by unnoticed.

He isn't sure what Mother Talzin was hoping for when she saved him. Likely something more than this, though. It wasn’t sentiment, Feral is sure of that. After all, the fact that she birthed the three of them hasn’t ever seemed to matter to her before. But—she wanted usefulness, likely.

Feral’s proved far less useful than she’s hoped. Not a good Sith, not a fearsome warrior forged by Nightsister magicks, just a connection to a past she wants Savage to have abandoned. Savage is in control of himself now, though. There's no easy way to make him kill Feral again, and some of the old protectiveness is still there. He won't let Feral die, either. So Mother Talzin is stuck with him for now. Except—

Well. Savage and Maul are across the galaxy, working with Ventress. When Mother Talzin brough Feral the information on the broadcasting station, he hadn’t thought to hesitate. Now, though, it’s looking rather more like a plot to get him killed than a mission for the sake of the Separatists.

Perhaps, Feral thinks grimly, he miscalculated her ruthlessness. A mistake he won't make again, if he survives this.

Careful of each step, he slips through the trees, skirting around the quiet voices of the clones as they head back towards the transports. In the cleared space around the tower, there’s tech set up, a rough camp, and the Jedi and a clone in grey-and-blue marked armor and grey-striped _kama_ are leaning over a display that shows a map of the area. Feral isn't close enough to see any details, and he won't risk getting any nearer with a Jedi Master right there, but he frowns a little. Maps probably mean some sort of operation, and Feral didn’t seen anything about that in Mother Talzin’s information.

There's very little chance it was just a mistake or an oversight, and Feral grimaces, turning his eyes towards the tower again. He’ll have to be more careful from now on, or stick closer to Savage and Maul. It will annoy Maul, who has little patience for weakness, but—

But Feral survived Savage breaking his neck. He’s not about to lie down and die because Mother Talzin is frustrated that he isn't like his brothers. Not after everything.

Even if the mission is little more than an elaborate murder attempt, failure will still mean punishment. More than would otherwise be warranted, likely—Mother Talzin will be annoyed he survived. Knowledge of that keeps Feral cautious as he skirts the tower from the edge of the forest, looking for a way in. There are squads of clones on guard, all of them alert, and Feral can sense movement within the tower’s walls as well. The odds aren’t good, not without Maul or Savage here as a distraction, and as he completes the first circuit Feral comes to a stop, crouching behind the cover of a fallen tree and eyeing the wall.

If he has to fight his way in, with so many clone troopers _and_ Jedi Master Plo Koon here, the attempt will be over _very_ quickly. Even causing a distraction likely won't split their forces enough for him to manage an infiltration, and Feral rubs a hand over his horns, trying to think. Trying to imagine what Maul would do, but—

Maul has never been weak. Maul wouldn’t have needed Savage to protect him from Ventress, to give himself up to Ventress to save him. He wouldn’t hesitate to do what he needed to now, either.

And then, in the distance, the sound of blaster fire rattles to life.

Feral freezes, listening. Not within the camp, but beyond it, past the next ring of trees. It sounds like an attack, and within moments the relative calm of the camp is gone. Clones grab weapons, jerk their helmets on, and run, and the Jedi straightens from his plans. At his side, the commander growls orders into a comm, then turns and says something, and the general chuckles. He cocks his head, offering something in return, and a moment later they’re moving, disappearing into the trees at a quick pace. Feral watches them go, then slips in the opposite direction, towards the rear of the tower.

The clones there haven’t moved, haven’t relaxed. Feral takes one look at their bristling weapons, then the wall behind them, and grimaces. If those are droid armies attacking, though, that means Count Dooku has some hand in this, and if Feral can make them _assume_ he’s one of Dooku's many apprentices, they might underestimate him. Dooku's training is nothing compared to Maul’s, after all, and for all of Maul’s disdain he’s at least made sure that Feral can hold his own against clones and battle droids. For Savage’s sake, Feral knows, but—he still appreciates it.

Drawing his hood up to cover his face and hide his horns, Feral shifts back, judging distances. Too far to leap, even with the Force—the ring of cleared ground means he’ll have to expose himself at least briefly to the clones on guard, and to the tower’s weapons systems as well. Blaster bolts Feral can block, but the cannons will be far more of a problem.

Still. At the very least the Jedi is otherwise occupied, and that means Feral won't have a better opportunity to break in. He thinks, briefly, of trying to send a message to Savage, just in case, but stops himself before he can even start to reach for his comm. Maul is gathering power, and Savage is with him. They won't have time to answer their comms, and if they do, they won't be impressed by Feral’s plight. It’s a simple mission, after all.

If Feral was half the Sith they are, he’d have no trouble.

With a grimace, Feral pulls the scarf up over the bottom half of his face, hiding his coloring; if anyone gets close enough, they’ll know he’s a Zabrak, but this at least will confuse people from a distance, will add to the possibility that he’s Dooku's newest apprentice. Dooku hasn’t taken on another Zabrak since Savage betrayed him for Maul, and given his feud with Mother Talzin he probably won't, but very few other people will know that.

Mother Talzin will at least be pleased to have Dooku blamed for this, if he manages it.

Carefully, Feral unclips the lightsaber from his belt, weighs it in his hand for a moment. Then, deliberate, he steps out of the trees.

One of the clones notices him immediately, and shouts. Blasters come up, and Feral controls the instinctive twitch, the urge to dive to the side and out of the way. Like facing Ventress in the arena, knowing what was coming, and he still hates it. But this time, at least, he’s steadier. He doesn’t have to watch friends die at the hands of a Nightsister, doesn’t have to watch his brother give himself up in Feral’s name. The stakes are low; even if he fails, it will be fine.

With a hissing crackle, the scarlet blade ignites, and Feral can feel the fear that surges, the way the clone looks at him and sees death but still doesn’t move. Stands there, braced with the others, blaster lifted.

“Halt,” he says, and his voice doesn’t even shake.

Feral looks past him, to the antenna array that emerges from the top of the tower. With the codes, Mother Talzin and Maul will be able to listen in on every transmission the Republic sends, scramble messages, wreak havoc on their systems. He just needs to get to the control room and steal the data.

“Move,” he says, quiet, “and you won't be harmed.”

The clone doesn’t. Instead, he activates his comm, and says, “Commander Wolffe, General Plo, there's some kind of Sith trying to take the comm tower—aargh!”

He hits the ground and rolls, thrown by one hard push with the Force, and Feral hurls himself forward. The other clones don’t even hesitate; they open fire, a spray of blue bolts that Feral spins through, deflecting them into the ground and the walls. This, at least, is mindless and simple, almost soothing. He knows how the bolts fly even with his eyes closed, can anticipate, react, counter. Right in the middle of the knot of troopers, he twists to his feet, throws up a hand.

The Force is always easier to touch when his mind is at peace like this. One moment of will and a wave of it knocks the whole squad down.

Deactivating his lightsaber, Feral clips it to his belt and leaps the wall, just as another shout rises. There's a squad of troopers at the main door, and they fire immediately, but Feral leaps, flips, falls. The roof of the tower is solid, too thick to cut through, but there's a transparisteel viewscreen right beneath the array, and he leaps lightly across the roof, grabs the edge, and swings down, a blow with the Force shattering the whole window as he drops through. It takes half an instant to find the block of transponders he needs, and Feral makes for them quickly. The whole system is automated, so there shouldn’t—

There's a light thump of boots behind him, right at the edge of the broken window, and Feral stills.

“Well now,” a deep, cheerful voice says, and with a hum, a lightsaber ignites. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Something cold slides down Feral’s spine. That was far, far quicker than it should have been unless they were prepared for exactly this sort of attack.

“Master Koon,” he says, and turns, stepping back. Hears shouts, coming from below, and lets his gaze flicker away from the Kel Dor for an instant. More troopers coming up the tower’s interior. And with Plo blocking the window, that leaves Feral with far fewer escape routes than he would prefer.

Plo chuckles, taking a step forward. “How polite,” he says. “May I have your name in return, then?” When Feral says nothing, he cocks his head. “Ah, a shame. I'm sure Sinker would like to know the name of the Sith who gave him such a fright.”

Sinker. Likely the clone who faced him. Feral takes a step back, keeping his distance from Plo, and says, “Your men are still alive.”

There's a long moment of silence as Plo studies him. “Yes,” he agrees after a long moment, and advances another step. “I'm very grateful for your restraint, though I will admit it’s rather unusual.”

Feral reaches for anger, for fury, for any of the rage that makes Maul and Savage so fearsome. But—anger never comes easy, and fear is the closest he can get. And after so long, after so many things have fallen apart, even fear is hard to hold onto. Feral’s already died once, after all. He doesn’t want to do it again, but—it’s hard to fear something he’s endured already, or at least to fear it so deeply that it becomes the source of a Sith's power.

Besides, Savage has found a place for himself, in large part because of Feral’s death. He loves Maul, loves having a brother to fight alongside him, to be his equal. Feral has tried to feel jealousy, greed, but—he’s mostly just _glad_. Savage would have died for him, _did_ give up all claim to his own being for Feral’s sake.

Feral would do practically anything to keep him from having to make the same decision again.

“Don’t you have other things to be focusing on, Jedi?” he asks, and retreats another step. The lift is behind him, and if he can get the doors open, the shaft is a decent enough escape route.

With a light hum, Plo takes a step, then one to the side, and Feral eyes him. Judges the distance to the lift and the way he’s being herded, then the possibility of defeating one of the most dangerous Jedi in the whole Order, and wants to curse.

Plo doesn’t waver. “Well,” he says. “Grievous certainly wants us to think so, but I believe Master Ti is keeping him _thoroughly_ occupied at the moment. And we received information that someone would be attacking the communications array, so I volunteered to stop them. I must say, I expected commando droids, not one of Dooku's new assassins.”

Grievous. Of course Mother Talzin would send him into the middle of one of Grievous’s campaigns. There's little doubt that this was an attempt to get rid of him, and Feral closes his eyes for just a moment. Maybe he should have sent that comm to Savage anyway.

“A shame,” he says. “I was so hoping my presence would be a surprise.”

Plo laughs. “You are very surprising, assassin,” he assures Feral. “This whole encounter has been quite intriguing.” The blue blade of his lightsaber dips, and he offers Feral one four-fingered hand, claws politely capped. “Give yourself up, and this will go far better for you.”

Feral takes another deliberate step back, hand going to his lightsaber. Doesn’t want to ignite it, or duel Plo, because there's no way he’ll win, but—

“If the surprise is ruined, I should return and let my master prepare another,” he says. Sees the shift of Plo's weight, and in an instant he flings out a hand, all of his will behind one hard push.

The wave of force hits Plo squarely, flings him back through the open window and out of the tower, and behind Feral there’s a snarl. He ducks just in time, a blaster bolt skimming his ear, and twists, Force-quick, to lash out with a foot. The clone commander goes down, but even as he falls he aims and fires, and Feral flicks the bolt aside with a twitch of his fingers, leaps up and over, and drops down right between two more troopers as they emerge from the lift. The ones from the forest, he realizes with a start, and drops, sliding between them. Hits the edge of the lift, then flips his lightsaber out, ignites it, and drives the blade into the floor of the lift. It sears through easily, and Feral deflects a spray of blaster bolts, then kicks out the cut piece and drops.

A grapple fires, and a body falls after him.

Alarmed, Feral twists, catches a half-second glimpse of the commander raising his blaster, and throws up a hand. The cable jerks, and fear snaps through the clone, metallic and unpleasant on the back of Feral’s tongue. He catches a mental image of a broken cable, an unstoppable fall with no Jedi general to catch him—

Feral lands, rolls, and comes to his feet, slicing through the doors with one swift slash and leaping out. He can feel the Jedi at the top of the tower, more clone troopers closing, the commander landing, and he spins, leaps for the main doors of the tower and out.

There's a blaster waiting for him, and Sinker on the other side of it.

Feral freezes. Maybe it’s knowing the clone’s name that makes him stop short, or maybe it’s that familiar-unfamiliar flare of _I might die but I won't let that stop me from saving them_. Maybe it’s the fact that there's no way around the clone, no space to leap him. If Feral tries to throw him again, he’ll fire, and deflecting the bolt from this close means it will hit the clone. And—

Feral could cut him down. But he can see his face through the helmet, knows his name. His fingers tighten on the hilt of his lightsaber, and for a moment all he can think of is Savage stepping in front of him, confronting Ventress to save him. Sinker is doing the same, facing a Sith to save his brothers, even though he’s absolutely sure it will kill him.

The tip of a blaster settles against the back of his head, and the clone commander growls, “Drop the lightsaber.”

Feral holds Sinker’s gaze, able to sense the confusion rising, the uncertainty. Raises his hands, slow, careful, and touches the Force as he opens his fingers—

“Wolffe!” Plo cries, and Feral hurls himself sideways just as the blaster against his head fires. The ‘saber spins as it falls, forcing Sinker back, but Feral doesn’t wait. Leaps, flips, catches the lightsaber as it comes spinning back to his hand, and then turns to the door only to find the commander has planted himself squarely in front of it. He looks _furious_ , but Feral can feel the fear in him, something soul-deep and almost sharp enough to make him falter. It feels—familiar, almost. Like his own fear of Mother Talzin, when he’s standing before her with Savage near him.

The fear doesn’t stop him, though. In an instant, he’s moving, launching himself forward and right at Feral, and Feral is too startled to do anything for one critical moment. Wolffe hits him around the waist, bears him down to the floor and slams him into the plating, but Feral grew up wrestling with Savage even if he never won. Wolffe is half Savage’s weight, and with a hard twist Feral gets a knee in his chest, takes a punch to the face that would have likely broken a Human’s jaw, and flips them. Catches Wolffe’s fist, then rolls off of him as he brings up a knee to catch Feral in the stomach. Spinning to his feet, he throws up a hand, catching the flash-bang grenade just as it leaves Wolffe’s fingers and sending it towards the Jedi as he approaches at a run.

The click is warning enough to shut his eyes, duck his head and pull his hood down to block the tremendous flash of light, and Zabrak eyes work best in the dark anyway. With the suns setting, with everyone else blinded by the flare, he deactivates his lightsaber and leaps for the door—

A body hits his back, and Wolffe tackles him down the steps, sending them rolling across the dusty ground. Feral hisses, struggles up, then twists hard, contorting himself. Both of his boots catch Wolffe in the chestplate of his armor, flinging him off, but he grabs Feral’s arm, wrenches Feral around with him and slams him down into the dirt. It knocks the breath from Feral’s lungs, but he shoves a hand up, concentrates, and lets one hard Force push hurl Wolffe off of him.

Another flicker of power catches Wolffe. It drops him right on his feet three meters away, and Feral scrambles upright, igniting his lightsaber just in time to catch a blue blade across his own.

“You're a slippery one,” Plo says cheerfully, like he’s hardly straining, even as Feral staggers back a step under the pressure of his blade. “Good at hand to hand, to face off with Wolffe, though. He’s one of the best in the GAR, did you know that?”

“General,” Wolffe says, aggrieved, and takes two steps to the side, blaster aimed at Feral’s head. “Pay _attention_.”

“I am, I am, Commander,” Plo says, entirely unconcerned. It feels like he’s smiling, though Feral can't see it behind his breathing mask. “Now, assassin, perhaps it would be best to surrender. There will be more Jedi here shortly.”

Feral breathes in, breathes out. Flicks a glance away from Plo, even as he takes another step back, and his ship is at the top of the cliff, hidden but accessible. If he can just get over the wall, back into the trees, he can make it there, get back to Dathomir. Mother Talzin will punish him for failing, but that’s better than dying at a Jedi's hands.

Of course, that means first getting past Plo Koon, who even Dooku hesitates to engage.

“More Jedi won't make a difference,” he says. “You can't stop me.”

Plo chuckles. “Well,” he says, “it seems to have worked well enough so far. Aayla and her men are nearly here.”

Feral tenses, almost looks for the approaching forces, but remembers himself in time. It’s not a good idea to take his eyes off one of the best swordsmen in the Jedi Order. “It won't matter,” he says again, and really, truly hopes it won't. Once he’s in the trees, he’s confident he can get away, but…there are several hundred yards, a Jedi, and a lot of clone troopers between him and the forest. Maul would—

But he’s not Maul.

Taking a breath, Feral meets Plo's covered eyes. Tries to think of something suitably dramatic that one of Dooku's assassins would say, but that just makes him think of Ventress and he refuses to make any part of himself like her, even to fool others.

Instead of saying anything at all, Feral moves. Sudden, quick, he ducks and spins to the side, Plo's blade missing his horns by a centimeter as it sweeps down. Lunging forward, he slams a shoulder into Plo's side, ducks the lightsaber’s backwards slash, and leaps. A blaster bolt redirects off his own blade, and he hits the ground right in front of Wolffe, drops, sweeps his feet out from under him. Wolffe’s fury surges as he hits the ground, but so does that rotted-metallic terror, and Feral almost staggers under the sudden force of it. Shakes himself hard, bringing his lightsaber down, and Wolffe recoils but Feral isn't aiming for him. He slashes through the blaster instead, then dodges Plo's advance with a high, twisting leap, lands on the edge of the wall, and slips over.

A moment later, Plo follows, and Feral hisses a curse but spins to meet him, blue blade striking red. Disengaging, Feral ducks around him, vaults a trooper who tries to grab him and feels a spike of warning in the Force. He throws himself down, rolls beneath the sweep of Plo's blade, and kicks out. Plo hops over it, lands, but Feral surges up to his feet inside his guard and headbutts him square in the chest.

Between the Jedi's robes and his own hood, there’s no chance of Feral’s small horns actually killing him. But it’s certainly a surprise, and there’s enough force behind it to throw Plo right off his feet. He hits the ground hard, and Feral takes a step back—

From behind him, there's a shout. Feral spins, automatic, and catches a half-second glimpse of Sinker’s helmet. Then the butt of a blaster slams into the side of his head and sends darkness crashing down.


	2. Chapter 2

“Kriff,” Sinker mutters, and staggers back a step, lowering his blaster.

Wolffe doesn’t spare him so much as a glance, bolting to where Plo is just pulling himself up with a groan, one hand pressed against his chest. “General!” he demands. “Are you all right?”

Plo's hand comes away dotted with blood, and Wolffe feels a shock of fear, cold all the way through him. Some species secrete poison, and with the Sith, there’s always more of a chance that something is going to go wrong. Grabbing Plo's wrist, he holds his hand still, right where he can see it, and snaps at Boost, “Get Payback here now, the general’s hurt.”

“Hardly grievously,” Plo says, amused, and pats Wolffe’s wrist reassuringly. He doesn’t seem to mind that Boost ignores him, already on the comm to their medic, and instead looks over at Sinker and the form in black robes at his feet. “Sergeant?”

Sinker breathes out, then crouches down, nudging the newest of Dooku's pet assassins in the shoulder. “He’s alive, sir. Knocked him out, that’s all.”

Impressive, given that Wolffe hit him hard enough to put a Human on the ground at _least_ twice. With a grimace, Wolffe rises to his feet, then tells Plo, “Don’t touch anything with that, we don’t know what got into your blood.” Not waiting for a response, he crosses over to join Sinker, helping him turn the assassin over. “Comet, casualty report.”

“Your dignity, sir? How many times did you just land on your _shebs_?” Comet offers, because he likes to think he’s funny. When Wolffe raises his head to give him a glare, he lifts his hands. “No dead, sir. Ringer got thrown into the wall pretty hard and will probably have some bruises, but that’s the worst of it.”

“He was trying impressively hard not to kill anyone,” Plo notes, though he’s still seated where Wolffe left him. At the sound of running steps, he lifts his head, offering the Wolfpack’s medic a smile as Payback drops to his knees next to him. “Ah, I apologize for making you rush, Lieutenant. It certainly wasn’t that urgent.”

“Tell that to Commander Wolffe,” Payback says, amused, and starts undoing sashes and pulling tunics aside. “What happened?”

“Headbutt,” Sinker says, and carefully eases back the draping dark hood. Pauses, startled, and then says, “By a Zabrak. Nightbrother, I think. Looks like Dooku's sticking with the standard model.”

Wolffe frowns at the Zabrak, who’s definitely not Iridonian. The wide sweeps of the traditional Nightbrother tattoos cover his face, and his horns are sharp but small. There's a trickle of blood running down the side of his head from Sinker’s blow, but he looks otherwise unharmed after taking on half the battalion and almost knocking out their general. And—

It’s too much like Ventress. The scar over Wolffe’s eye aches, and he feels the prosthetic eye all too clearly for a moment. Remembers the blow, and her viciousness, and the way his mind jarred across that scene again and again as the assassin faced him. It feels a little like failure, that he wasn’t able to cope.

“Karking hells,” he mutters, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. Not over the scar, because he has some self-control. “At least this one’s bad at his job.”

“Or very good at it,” Plo says, far too pleased for Wolffe’s peace of mind. Still, he’s letting Payback smear bacta over the ring of bleeding indents in his chest, and they look relatively shallow. Wolffe will take it. At the very least, Plo isn't like Kenobi; Wolffe’s heard more than enough horror stories from both Cody and Rex to know when to count his blessings there.

“Sir?” he asks, frowning.

Plo hums, taking the wipe Payback offers him to clean off his hand. It makes Wolffe tense slightly, but he also catches the amused look Payback and Plo share, so there’s no way in hell he’s actually going to comment on it.

“Tell me, Wolffe,” Plo says gently. “If you were a Sith, standing in front of a trooper with only a blaster, while you held a lit lightsaber and needed to get past, what would be your course of action?”

Wolffe takes a breath. He’d seen that, too. Had thought, for one terrifying instant, that Sinker was about to die. That he was about to see one of the last survivors of the original Wolfpack cut down and killed, because the way out was through Sinker and there was no way one of Dooku's apprentices would have hesitated.

But the Sith _had_ hesitated. Even with Plo behind him, even with Wolffe close enough to reach out and fire at point-blank range, he hadn’t moved. Just stared at Sinker for an endlessly long heartbeat, and let himself be cornered rather than cutting right through him.

“Twice, sir,” Sinker says quietly, and reaches out, pulling the cloth covering the bottom of the Zabrak’s face down. He’s younger than Savage and quite a bit smaller, skin dusty orange and brown instead of black and yellow. Smaller horns, too, for all the pattern of them looks similar. “He stood right in front of me when I commed you and didn’t do more than toss me to the side. And then in the door—he didn’t even want to _try_ and kill me.”

His lightsaber hadn’t moved. Wolffe saw that, too. Not so much as a twitch in Sinker’s direction, and even when he dropped it, the weapon was well out of range.

“What the hell kind of Sith goes out of their way to keep clone troopers alive?” Wolffe asks harshly, and grabs the Zabrak’s shoulder, rolling him onto his front and grabbing a set of binders. As he locks them around the Sith's hands, Plo makes a soft, thoughtful sound and pulls his robes back over his chest.

“Perhaps,” he says, “the same kind of Sith who doesn’t feel of rage or pain.”

Wolffe raises his head enough to give his general a narrow look, suspicious of that tone. “Sir,” he says, more warning than question.

Undeterred, Plo chuckles. He reaches out, and the Zabrak’s lightsaber flies to him, settling in his palm. For a moment, Plo simply turns it over, studying it, and then says, “I may not be Quinlan Vos, but I don’t believe this weapon has killed before. He has little connection to it, and it feels of someone else’s rage.”

“Hard to be an assassin if you don’t kill,” Boost observes, crouching down next to Plo.

“So perhaps he isn't an assassin after all,” Plo says, and clips the red lightsaber to his belt beside his own. “Comet, how is Shaak faring?”

“I think she made General Grievous cry, sir,” Comet says with relish. “That’s what Havoc is saying, at least.”

“Because Havoc is definitely an unbiased source when it comes to General Ti,” Sinker says dryly, and hesitates. “General, should we alert the other generals that we’ve got a Sith for prisoner pickup?”

There's a pause that’s just a moment too long, and Wolffe’s stomach sinks.

“Well,” Plo says judiciously. “I don’t think there’s any need to be so hasty about things. After all, he didn’t do any active damage.”

“There’s a lift shaft that would say otherwise,” Wolffe mutters, but he knows when he’s going to be ignored and just rolls the Zabrak back over, doing a quick check for any other weapons. He has a vibroblade hidden in one of his tall boots, and another in his sash, and Wolffe rather approves of the instinct; he can't remember the last time he saw a Force-user actually carry any sort of knife. He removes them quickly, though, and tosses them to Boost. “Payback, check if those are poisoned.”

Payback doesn’t bother to roll his eyes, though he looks like he wants to. Still, he scans the blades as Boost hands them over, then shakes his head. “Clear,” he says. “The general, too.”

That almost makes Wolffe feel more suspicious, honestly. He breathes in, breathes out, and grimaces, unable to control the roil of unease in his chest as he stares down at the Zabrak. Between the oddness of his actions and the way Plo dodged Wolffe’s question, he really doesn’t like where this is going.

“Well then!” Plo says cheerfully. “Now that the communications tower is safe and the 327th is on its way to relieve us, I believe we may begin our return to the cruiser.” His eyes crinkle, and he says, “I'm sure Payback would like to run more thorough tests, of course.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Payback says, perfectly straight-faced even when Wolffe gives him a disbelieving look. “You can never be too careful, after all.”

Wolffe turns his glare on Plo, who is entirely unbothered. He rises to his feet, brushing down his robes, and offers Payback a hand up as well. “Thank you, Payback. Shall we have the Zabrak taken to the medbay as well?”

Wolffe growls, but before he can say anything, Payback snorts. “If the commander has an aneurysm, I'm going to have to be the one to deal with it,” he says dryly. “The brig will be fine, sir. I can treat him there.”

Wolffe doesn’t say _we don’t need to treat him at all,_ because they're not Seps. He thinks it, though, even if he hopes like hell Plo doesn’t catch it.

“If I might remind you, General,” he says tightly, instead, “our brig isn't set up for holding Force-sensitive prisoners.”

“I'm sure stun cuffs will be perfectly sufficient, as far as security goes,” Plo says, like Wolffe hasn’t seen him get out of stun cuffs in under seven seconds and then use them to knock out a guard. “Sinker, would you like assistance with him?”

“Boost and I can get him, sir,” Sinker says, and slings his blaster over his back, crouching down again. He checks the Zabrak again, quick, and then pauses, frowning faintly. Tugs the loose cloth around his neck down, and says, “Sir, what is this?”

Wolffe sets his jaw and looks, hand going to one of his blaster pistols. Even as he grips it, though, Plo cocks his head, leaning over the Zabrak, and touches two capped claws to his throat. There’s a mark burned into the skin there, stark red against the orange and brown of his markings. It’s not one Wolffe recognizes, but judging by the way his general stills, he does.

“A Nightsister’s symbol,” Plo says, and for the first time he sounds concerned. Though, Wolffe thinks resignedly, probably not for the right reasons. “They must have worked some sort of witchcraft on him.”

“He didn’t seem enhanced,” Sinker says, brow furrowing. “Savage would have torn his way right through the wall without breaking a sweat, but he didn’t seem all the much stronger than General Kolar or General Koth.”

“No,” Plo agrees thoughtfully. “Eeth was born on Nar Shaddaa and has little connection to Iridonia or Dathomir, but I believe Agen has returned to Iridonia several times, and knows several Zabraks who escaped the Nightsisters on Dathomir. I will contact him for information.”

“Sir,” Wolffe says warningly. “We shouldn’t risk just holding him in the brig like a regular prisoner until we find out. General Kolar's deep in Sep space, it could take him days to get back to us.”

“With Commander Fil, I believe,” Plo says cheerfully. “Both of them are rather fond of explosives, aren’t they? And dramatic entrances. Often utilizing those explosives. It’s quite the match.”

Privately, Wolffe is pretty sure that command paired them together and shoved them into enemy territory just to get Kolar and Fil both out of their hair, and potentially inflict huge swathes of damage on the Seps. He’s never seen a whole council of admirals about as ready to cry as they were the last time Kolar got back from a mission.

“ _Sir_ ,” he says, aggravated.

Plo lays a hand on his shoulders, eyes crinkling. “Peace, Wolffe. I sense very little danger from this one. The brig will be fine, and Sinker and Boost will stay close and watch him.”

“Testing his willingness to do Sinker harm a third time?” Wolffe asks sourly, though he doesn’t actually mean it.

Plo knows that, too; he squeezes Wolffe’s shoulder, and says quietly enough that even Sinker and Boost can't overhear, “He is not Ventress, Wolffe. I may know very little about him, but I am sure of that.”

It feels as if Wolffe’s breath rattles in his lungs for just one second, and he looks away. Plo's grip tightens again, gentle, before he lets go, and says, “I hope you don’t mind guard duty, Sergeant.”

“Of course not, sir,” Sinker says, and then, “Careful, Boost. You're not actually a bantha, even if you smell like one, so stop _stepping_ on me.”

“Oh, kriff you,” Boost retorts, staggering a little as they haul the Zabrak up between them. “He’s dead weight, leave me alone.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes and waves Comet forward to get the prisoner’s feet. “Stun him the second you think he’s waking up,” he says curtly. “I don’t want him conscious until he’s in the brig.”

“We’ll join you on the shuttle as soon as Aayla arrives,” Plo agrees, serene. “Our detour is almost over, I believe.”

“About time,” Boost mutters. “We’re extraction, not assault troops.”

“Yes, well.” Plo steps closer, touching the Zabrak’s cheek, and his expression is the distant, careful sort of thoughtful that makes Wolffe’s skin prickle faintly. “When the Council received word that there was going to be an assault on the tower, we thought it best to assist, rather than overwhelm Shaak and Aayla.”

Wolffe looks at Sinker, frowning, to find him looking back. “Sir?” he asks warily.

Plo pulls his hand away with a chuckle. “The Force moves in ways no one can predict,” he says. “Isn't it fascinating, Commander?”

Wolffe grimaces. No matter what Plo says, he has a very, very bad feeling about what’s going to come of this.

Thankfully, his comm beeps before he has to come up with a response that’s more coherent than just swearing, and he turns away to update Bly as the Zabrak is hauled back towards the shuttle.

Quiet voices bring Feral around.

For a moment, it’s hard to place where he is. Hard to tell if the voices are Maul and Savage speaking over him, maybe after training—Feral’s head certainly hurts like he went three rounds with Maul, and he’s sprawled out on cold metal. Maul’s ship, maybe. But—

It’s not the whisper-soft darkness of Maul’s voice, or the rumbling edge of Savage’s. Feral’s arms hurt, an ache that runs from his shoulders to his wrists, and when he tries to shift them, he can't.

That small motion is enough to halt the voices, and an instant later there’s a hand on Feral’s shoulder. “You’ve got stun cuffs on,” a gruff voice says, but that hand keeps Feral from rolling over onto his bound wrists. It’s a firm hand, covered in a gauntlet, and when Feral manages to open his eyes, he catches a glimpse of white plastoid streaked with grey.

 _Oh_ , Feral thinks, and it feels like something cold just settled in the pit of his stomach. A clone. There's a clone leaning over him, and his hands are bound. Clearly, the fight didn’t end as he had hoped. Not that it’s entirely unexpected.

“You're—Sinker,” he says after a moment, recognizing the pattern on the body of the armor, even if the trooper’s helmet is off.

The clone pauses for a moment, like he’s startled, and then snorts softly. “I am,” he allows. “Most people wouldn’t know that immediately, though.”

Feral’s head aches. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to marshal it. “You have markings,” he says. “Like a Zabrak. It makes it easy to tell.”

“Oh.” There's another pause, and then a hand on the side of Feral’s head. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I guess that’s why we do it. Payback?”

“Headache?” a brisker voice says, and another clone enters the cell, carrying a scanner and a hypo. “Any allergies?” he asks, crouching down next to Feral.

“I'm all right.” Uncomfortable lying flat while they both loom over him, Feral pushes himself up carefully, then slides back a bit. Sinker shifts, watching him warily, but the medic just meets his eyes without hesitation.

“This is a painkiller,” he says, holding up the hypo. “I fixed the crack Sinker put in your skull, so it should go away soon on its own. If you want the medication, though, it’s yours.”

Sinker winces, running a hand over his white hair. “Payback,” he complains.

“That’s what happened. Better not to hide it.” Payback doesn’t let his gaze waver, and Feral brushes the very edges of his mind, but finds only a straightforward desire to help. Quickly, he nods, and Payback leans in, pressing the hypo against his shoulder. Feral feels the pinch, the pressure, but almost at once the ache eases, and he lets out a breath.

“Thank you,” he says carefully, looking between the clones. If they're here, helping him, he likely didn’t injure their general too badly. “I—can I ask where I am?”

Payback’s brows rise faintly, and Sinker makes a face. “General Plo's flagship,” he says. “In the brig. If you try anything, we have orders to knock you out immediately, and then keep you sedated until we reach our destination.”

Stun cuffs. Right. Feral winces, turning his hands to test them, but doesn’t make any move to snap them with the Force. Sinker is probably ready for something like that.

Maul is going to be angry, Feral thinks unhappily. And Savage is going to be _disappointed_. Neither of them would have been caught, even if they hadn’t managed to steal the codes. His first mission alone was likely never going to go well, but this is particularly bad, even for him.

Slowly enough that it won't be taken for any sort of attack, Feral shifts, sitting back and crossing his legs underneath himself. The cell is decently sized, and there's a cot on one side, a ‘fresher unit, a blanket. It’s certainly not like waking up on a stone table surrounded by witches, the blood in his veins burning.

“What’s your name?” Sinker asks gruffly, and reaches out. He untwists the cloth from around Feral’s neck, pulling it off so it’s not choking him anymore, and folds it. “You’ve picked up that I'm Sinker, and this is Payback, the Wolfpack’s medic.”

Giving them a name with a connection to Savage seems like a mistake, but— “Feral,” he says, because most Nightbrothers have similar names.

Payback’s brows slide higher, but all he says is, “Thanks for not making my job any harder than it normally is, managing these bastards.”

“The only bastard in these parts is Wolffe,” Sinker says dryly. “But we’re glad you didn’t do more than dump him on his _shebs_.”

“His what?” Feral asks, blinking.

Sinker freezes, but Payback just snorts. “Ass,” he translates, amused. “In Mando’a.”

“All clones speak Mando’a?” Feral asks, a little startled. He hadn’t thought Mandalorians shared their language with anyone they hadn’t adopted.

“Of course. We’re Mandalorian,” Sinker says, and there’s a thread of pride in it. “Jango Fett picked Mandalorian trainers for us so we could be considered that way, and they did their jobs.” He considers Feral for a moment, then asks, “What about you? Dathomirian Zabraks have a different language from Iridonian Zabraks, right?”

Feral shakes his head. “The Nightsisters have their own tongue,” he says. “For magics and for secrets. But the males speak Basic. I've never met an Iridonian.”

Savage used to talk about it, sometimes. Leaving, repairing one of the old wrecks that had crashed on Dathomir decades ago, and getting to Iridonia to make themselves a new life. Feral had studied, had read everything he was allowed and several things he wasn’t so that he would one day be able to repair a spaceship, but—

But then the Nightsister had come, and she had killed a dozen of their friends and fellow Nightbrothers, and Savage had surrendered himself to her to keep Feral alive. Then he had been forced to kill Feral, and had found Maul, and Mother Talzin had dragged Feral back to full life and out of the stasis she had placed him in after his near-death.

After he’d woken up, rejoined them, Feral had thought, had _hoped_ —

But Savage was a Sith apprentice, and Maul was a Sith Lord, and neither of them were ever going to let themselves be helpless or powerless again. Especially not for an old dream spun out in childhood.

Closing his eyes, Feral tries to marshal himself, tries to even out his breathing into something that isn't caught up in old fear and sadness. “What’s going to happen to me?” he asks instead, looking up at Sinker. Savage and Maul are otherwise occupied, and likely won't hear of his mission for at least a few weeks, and once they do—well. Maul hates facing Plo as it is, and Feral knows very little about their plans, so there's no risk of him giving them away. They likely won't risk themselves to rescue him.

Feral wouldn’t want them to, but—Sith are expected to look out for themselves, and themselves first. After the way Feral grew up, with him and Savage looking out for each other equally, it’s a harsh adjustment.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Payback murmurs, “I’d better get back to the medbay,” and rises to his feet. He lets himself out of the cell, sealing it behind him, and nods to the other clone by the door of the brig as he leaves.

Sinker doesn’t move, though. He just looks at Feral for a long moment, then drags a hand through his hair again, and says, “I'm not sure. The general didn’t say, but he wouldn’t hand you over to the rest of the forces, and we’re on deployment.”

Meaning it will likely be a while until they’re back at any sort of base. Feral grimaces, slumping back against the wall, and considers his cuffs. He can get out of them, and—

Well. Maul or Savage would simply take Sinker hostage, use a threat to his life to force the other clone to open the door, but Feral remembers all too well the feeling of being used against his brother, remembers how wretched and awful it was to watch Savage give himself to Ventress because she was going to kill him. He can't do that to anyone else.

He tips his head back against the durasteel, closes his eyes again. Mother Talzin set him up to fail, to be killed, and it’s not _surprising_ , because she has never hidden the fact that she thinks he’s a waste of time and training. Feral didn’t expect much else from her, either. On Dathomir, Nightbrothers—even her own sons—are disposable and easily replaced, and she has little patience for any that aren’t Maul or Savage.

“Thirsty?” Sinker asks quietly, a wry slant to his tone. “I think I'm allowed to get you some water, if you need it.”

The thread of humor in his voice helps. It’s something to reach for, something to cling to, and Feral appreciates it, even as he shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says, “but I'm fine.”

“But cold,” Sinker observes.

“Dathomir is a swamp world,” Feral says, and opens his eyes to give Sinker a small smile. “And I haven’t left it often. Everywhere is cold right now.”

Sinker stares at him for a long moment. “If I put your hood up and Boost catches a glimpse of your eyes glowing, he might shoot first and ask questions later,” he jokes, and offers up the scarf Feral used to hide his face. “But you can have this back, if you want it.”

Mother Talzin provided him with clothes, and Feral has no attachment to any piece of them. But the scarf will add at least a little warmth, so he nods quickly, ducking forward to let Sinker wrap it around his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says.

“No problem.” Sinker gives him another odd look, then retreats, settling back against the opposite wall. He’s very clearly on guard, meant to be watching, and Feral feels nerves curl in his stomach but doesn’t let himself flinch.

“Master Koon,” he says. “He’s…?”

“Just fine,” Sinker says, amused. “Giving Commander Wolffe grey hairs as fast as he possibly can, but that’s nothing new.”

Feral hesitates. Talk of the commander brings the memory of his fear into sharp focus, and Feral wants to ask, but—if Sinker doesn’t know, telling someone else about Wolffe’s emotions feels…invasive. “He’s an impressive fighter,” he says instead, thinking of the commander’s leap down the lift shaft after him.

“Wolffe or the general?” Sinker asks, raising a brow.

Feral chuckles despite himself. “Both,” he allows. “But your commander was unrelenting.”

“That’s a good description of Wolffe,” Sinker agrees. Pauses, watching Feral closely for a long moment, and then says, “You hesitated. In the doorway.”

Feral can't meet his eyes, has to look away. “You were protecting your brothers,” he says. “It reminded me of someone else.”

He misses Savage. Not just the Sith warrior who reigns now, but the brother Feral grew up with, gruff but impossibly kind, impossibly caring. Wants to know Maul as something other than a ruthless teacher, wants to see in him what Savage does, and—regrets. Regrets that he couldn't keep pace with them, more than anything.

He’s all right with it, usually. Sinker’s actions just reminded him, that’s all, and waking up a prisoner made it hit harder.

It’s fine, though. Feral will manage. He always has.


	3. Chapter 3

Savage wakes from his nightmare screaming.

Maul can hear it through the walls of the ship, can feel the roil of black fear and smell the stink of terror despite the space between them. He doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t move from the charts, but as vividly as if he’s in the room with him he can feel Savage’s gasping, gagging breaths, the nauseating shake of horror in his stomach. Can feel his fists clench, and his chest heave, and the way he hunches in on himself in the bed, gripping his own horns as he rides out the fading images.

It’s fine. Sith are supposed to feel strongly, to take that and twist it and use it. Mother Talzin’s actions gave Savage a deeper well of fear and pain to draw from than most, and Maul approves. His brother will make a decent apprentice, with enough time and effort.

Well. _This_ brother will.

Maul curls his fingers around the edge of the holoprojector, watching the star systems spin before his eyes. Ignores, deliberately, the way Savage staggers out of bed and trips to land on one knee, still gasping for breath, still in turmoil. Savage is still adjusting, and Maul can make allowances for that. After all, Maul was with Sidious from the start, grew up knowing all of the lessons that Savage is learning now. In comparison Savage had a start that was practically gentle. He had a clan, a family, a home. He _sacrificed_ himself, purely out of sentiment.

Maul would never. He learned that lesson too well. Emotion that can't be used as a weapon is a weakness, and can't be permitted.

Given how Feral and Savage treat each other, he thinks Savage may have finally learned it as well.

It takes a long, long stretch of minutes, but by the time Maul is halfway through plotting their next course, the door of Savage’s room opens, and he stumbles out, rubbing at his eyes. His robes are askew, and he hasn’t bothered with his armor, which makes Maul frown, but he doubts saying anything right now will be productive.

It’s still a vulnerability, though. Savage needs to adjust to the fact that such things are not permitted among the Sith.

“Brother,” he says, and ignores the heavy slump of Savage’s shoulders as he sinks into the open seat. “Pleasant dreams?”

Savage laughs, and it rattles in his chest. “Any word from Dathomir?” he asks instead, and Maul glances up, narrowing his eyes.

“I haven’t looked,” he says dismissively, and the emotion that curls in his chest is…possession, likely. Savage chose to come on this trip with him, after all, chose to leave his other brother behind with the witches. He shouldn’t be surprised that Maul’s mind is solely on business.

But Savage’s eyes still stray to the comms, and he hesitates. Doesn’t move, at least, and Maul doesn’t let his satisfaction show.

“That twice-cursed pirate reneged on our bargain,” Maul says, and feels the glance Savage gives him, the sudden focused attention. “She will be dealt with, but for now we are short a contact.”

Savage frowns, leaning back, and his eyes narrow. “Feral was looking into alternatives along the Corellian Trade Spine,” he says. “He may have found something.”

Maul will admit, however offhandedly, that Feral at least makes himself useful in such ways. Kept away from battles, he can be of use, because he has a quick mind and a patience Maul has never managed to cultivate, but—that’s hardly fitting for a Sith warrior.

Still. If they can harry supply ships along the Corellian Trade Spine, especially ships intended to resupply the Republic forces fighting in the Outer Rim, it will be an edge. Maul will never work for Dooku, but alongside him is a prospect that at least doesn’t make him sick to his stomach. The alliance of pirates and criminals that Maul is looking to establish will give him enough influence to start making inroads into Dooku's power, but until then, destroying Republic ships and crippling a major supply route seems a decent enough way to pass the time.

With a gesture, he calls his comm to him, ignoring the way Savage’s eyes are suddenly fixed on him. It makes annoyance flare, but Maul crushes it down, ignores it. The way Savage has chosen to avoid Feral, to keep his distance, is incredibly aggravating, but it leaves him at maul’s side more often than not, and Maul isn't about to change things.

Feral doesn’t answer his comm, though.

Frowning, Maul tries the code again, but gets nothing except silence. It’s odd, because for all of Feral’s many flaws, he’s attentive. Maul has never commed him and not had him respond almost instantly before.

Suspicion curls, dark and hot in Maul’s gut, and he sinks back, eyeing the comm narrowly for a moment. Mother Talzin hadn’t mentioned anything about sending Feral out, or occupying his attention with anything, but she’s a conniving old witch, and Maul trusts her little. For a moment, he taps his fingers against the tabletop, ignoring Savage’s slow stiffening beside him, and then tries Mother Talzin instead.

There's only a moment’s pause before the image of her rises, shimmering blue on the tabletop. “My sons,” she says, and the crooning danger in her voice puts Maul’s hackles up, makes him set his jaw. Mother Talzin gave him back his sanity, but—it means he owes her a debt, and Maul loathes that. “What may I help you with?”

“Mother Talzin,” Maul says curtly. “Where is Feral? I require his research into the Republic’s use of the Corellian Trade Spine.”

Talzin is too practiced to hesitate, but her smile is a little slow, just enough for Maul to notice. “Is he not answering? Oh my. He was on a mission to the Auril sector, but he should have made it there well before now.”

The suspicion only gets stronger. Maul considers her in silence for a long moment, and Savage is stiff and _angry_ next to him, but—

The fear in him is even stronger than the rage. That’s fine. Fear can be a useful tool.

“The Auril sector,” he repeats, at length. “Assisting in Lord Sidious’s plans?”

“With the war effort,” Mother Talzin says, pleased with herself. Maul wants to _crush_ her beneath his boot heel, for all that he recognizes her usefulness. “I believe he was dispatched to deal with a communications tower the Republic has been relying on.”

There's only one important communications tower in that sector that the GAR uses, and Maul ends the transmission abruptly, then sits back in his chair. His fingers are tight around the arm, and it takes him a moment to control himself through the roil of displeasure and hatred that rises.

Ventress still has far too much influence over Talzin. A word from Dooku, a _suggestion_ that she might want something, and Talzin is eager to obey. It makes Maul furious, even if he understands why. A Nightsister will always outweigh a Nightbrother in Talzin’s eyes. Regardless of how much power Maul, Savage, and Feral gain, they will always be male, and on Dathomir males are nothing but laborers and breeding stock. He’s had his suspicions that that’s one of the reasons she kept Feral close after Savage’s transformation, but—

It was a miscalculation. Regardless of his raising, regardless of his own status as a Nightbrother, Savage will never allow Feral to be farmed out and used in such a way. Maul can't say he’s any more eager to see their power undercut like that, either.

Still. The fact that she can't use Feral, as weak as he is, to produce another generation of Nightsisters has been a thorn in Talzin’s side for a long while. Maul likes it very little, that she sent Feral away on a mission the moment he and Savage weren’t there to stop her, and he’s perfectly certain that both things are related.

Use, he thinks, and the arm of the chair creaks in his grip. She brought Feral back into the Nightsisters' temple so she could use him, and if she can't—

Well. Better dead than left to a useless existence, in a Nightsister’s eyes.

“Brother?” Savage asks, grim.

Maul closes his eyes for a long moment, marshalling his thoughts. “Grievous is advancing into the Auril sector,” he says. “The planet he had intended to conquer next boasts a transmission tower that’s invaluable to the Confederacy. I have little doubt that that is where Feral was sent.”

“We can be there within two days,” Savage says, already rising. He heads for the ship’s cockpit, and a moment later Maul feels the low shudder as he brings the ship out of hyperspace.

Maul could protest, could order Savage to let it be and return them to Dathomir directly. Feral is a Sith warrior, should be perfectly capable of surviving one assault on a backwater planet. He has training and a weapon and decent amount of cleverness. If he gets himself killed, it’s his own business.

And yet—

Perhaps it’s spite, that makes him want to go look for Feral. Mother Talzin wants Feral dead, so Maul will keep him alive because he hates Talzin more than Feral aggravates him. Or maybe it’s possessiveness, because Maul’s brother is _his_ , even when that brother is useless as a Sith. Maybe it’s some thread of hope for Feral’s potential, because he needs more powerful subordinates and Feral might be valuable with enough training.

Maul thinks of Feral the first time he saw him, when Mother Talzin ushered him into a tiny stone room beneath the Nightsisters’ temple. Remembers, clearly, the skinny body on the bed, and the way Feral had sat up and looked at him, wide-eyed and startled. Nothing like Savage, and certainly nothing like Maul, but—

Useful, someday. Maul is willing to accept that promise of potential as reason enough to look for Feral now.

Besides, Maul has already taken the most valuable thing in their family for himself. Savage is _his_ , is wholly devoted to _him_. Feral isn't a threat to him, not when he can hardly look Savage in the face anymore.

He watches Savage correct their course, aim them for another hyperlane. Thinks, with an edge of vicious satisfaction, just how careful a distance Savage has kept from Feral, the fear in him, the anger. However they grew up, whatever sort of connection they once had, it’s broken now.

Savage is the one who found Maul, who saved him from the junk planet and dragged him back for the witches to fix. He’s the one who devoted himself to Maul, clinging desperately to the blood ties between them. and Maul is hardly about to object, when it’s won him so much. Savage is a valuable thing, someone who will never betray him. Only Feral could sway him, and Feral fears him too much to try.

It rouses…something, to watch Savage and Feral interact now. Maul isn't sure if it’s glee or fury, but the emotions rise nevertheless. Last time Mother Talzin called both of them before her, Feral had practically curled in on himself as he stood there, and Savage had stared ahead of them with his expression perfectly blank and shuttered until Feral had vanished like smoke into the bowels of the temple.

Maul still doesn’t know precisely what happened. He’s aware that Savage sacrificed himself to Ventress in order to keep her from killing Feral the way she had several fellow Nightbrothers, but—after that, events are clouded. Savage was magicked into something huge and fearsome, and Feral appeared at the temple a few short weeks after Savage returned Maul to sanity.

The mystery of the thing, Maul thinks, is as irritating as having to deal with the aftermath. Savage won't speak of it, and it’s the only thing he even tries to hide from Maul, which would be aggravating enough. But the handful of times Maul has tried to corner Feral about it is the closest he’s ever seen their little brother to angry. Not even angry at Savage, but angry at Maul for daring to ask.

“Feral’s ship is still on the planet,” Savage says, and Maul rises to join him at the front, minding his steps. The pirate they were going to ally with, an upstart willing to challenge Hondo with a little prodding, managed to shoot him in the leg, and the mechanisms will need to be checked before he risks himself in battle with a Jedi again.

“And the Republic?” Maul asks, more interested in that than the whereabouts of the craft. Feral at least has enough sense to hide it somewhere; growing up as a Nightbrother is all about learning what is permitted, and figuring out how best to conceal what isn't.

Savage’s frown is pulling into an outright scowl as he checks the latest information siphoned from CIS systems. “Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura,” he says. “And their battalions. Grievous engaged them, and lost to Ti.”

Maul snorts, unsurprised. A walking hunk of metal with delusions of grandeur will never be a Jedi, no matter how many lightsabers he steals. But—

“The tower?” he asks.

Savage glances up at him, and his rage is a familiar thing, as familiar as Maul’s own at this point, but for the first time Maul has felt, there’s fear rising to subsume it. “Still operational,” he says quietly.

Well. Something for them to see to, clearly. Maul sinks down in the free seat, steepling his fingers, and considers what he knows of Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura. Between them, Ti is the council member, was chosen to guard Kamino and oversee the training of the clones. She’s clearly the more dangerous of the two, and preparations for facing her will have to be made. Maul would rather not engage the High Council unless it becomes absolutely necessary. But Secura—she’s a new Master, for all she leads the 327th. And, if Grievous faced Ti during the battle, Feral was likely left to Secura. She should be easy prey before Maul and Savage, if they work in tandem.

Whether Feral is alive and captured or dead on the planet, Maul will get his revenge. No one is allowed to take what’s his.

Feral feels Plo's approach before he even reaches the brig, a well-contained thunderstorm that rattles the edges of his senses and makes him flinch hard enough to drop the protein bar he’s holding. The motion makes Sinker jerk back in alarm, and Boost, by the door, instantly wrench to his feet, but Feral can't even say anything. He looks up towards the entrance just as the door slides open, and freezes.

Plo steps inside, Wolffe a looming shadow at his back, and pauses. His eyes are completely covered with his goggles, but his head tips as he looks from Feral to Sinker to Boost, and then says with bright amusement, “Ah, have I come at a bad time?”

“Sergeant?” Wolffe says, almost a growl as he takes a step around Plo, putting himself squarely between Feral and the general.

Sinker flicks a glance at Feral, who tries his best to give him a smile through the sick roil of nervousness in his stomach. It makes Sinker pause, and after a long moment he lets out a rough breath, picks up Feral’s dropped bar, and presses it back into his hands. “Just a little jumpy, Commander,” he says.

“And why,” Wolffe demands, “are his hands in _front_ of him, Sergeant?”

“So he can eat, sir,” Sinker says, a little dry. “Though I’d understand if he’d rather choke me or something than finish that bar. It’s the one that tastes like cardboard.”

Plo chuckles. “I thought they all suffered from that unfortunate affliction,” he says, and rests a hand on Wolffe’s arm for just an instant before he steps away, approaching the cell with even steps.

“Yeah, but this one tastes like cardboard that someone’s already chewed for you,” Sinker says frankly, and Plo laughs. He opens the door without hesitation, stepping in, and Feral feels his heart jump into his throat. He wants to scramble back, wants to throw himself into the corner or under the bed, but—

That won't save him. That won't do anything but prove to them that he’s a coward, so he swallows hard, lifts his chin, and stays where he is.

The fact that Wolffe follows Plo into the cell, his emotions a roil of distrust and terrified fury, doesn’t help at all, and when his gaze locks with Feral, Feral twitches back automatically, ducking his head.

“Master Koon,” he manages.

“Hello,” Plo says, and his deep voice is warm. “I see Sinker is keeping you occupied, young man. You're comfortable?”

“ _General_ ,” Wolffe says, aggrieved.

Feral casts him a wary look before turning his attention back to Plo. “Yes,” he says, and carefully sets the protein bar aside. He’s not sure how much food he’s going to be allowed, so it’s best not to waste it. “What are you planning to do with me, Master Koon?”

Plo hums as he sinks down, settling cross-legged on the floor opposite Feral, who stills. It’s…not the action he expected. Not from a Jedi facing a Sith, and certainly not from a High General facing a prisoner. “That’s a rather good question,” Plo says cheerfully, and his tone is friendly but his attention is as sharp as the blade of a knife. Feral understands a little more just why Maul hates this Jedi in particular so much.

When there’s no following statement, no light threat, no _you’re going to stay in one of our prisons for the rest of your life_ , Feral swallows. He’s has nightmares about this exact scenario, has always dreaded it in particular. Not being good enough to escape outright has always weighed on his mind, and the aftermath, the fact that he’s a Nightbrother allied to the Separatist cause, will do absolutely nothing for his case. Even if they just send him back to Dathomir for the witches to deal with, the Nightsisters are a taboo tribe. The rest of the tribes have been trying to wipe them out for centuries for their use of the Dark Side, and they won't take any better to Feral—a Nightbrother, a male Zabrak, and a Dark Side user, which are all things they loathe—than the Republic as a whole.

“Please,” he says, and it’s possible his voice cracks, but—Savage and Maul won't be able to come for him, _shouldn’t_ even if they _would_ , and—

There’s no rescue coming. Feral has never been in control of his own fate, has never been able to make a single solitary choice about his own existence, but this makes it more obvious than it’s ever been. He’s spent the last year a prisoner of Ventress, a corpse, a prisoner of Mother Talzin, an apprentice to Maul with others pulling his strings. And now, like this, he’s a prisoner again, can't free himself even if he did have the power. It just—

It _aches_.

Something in Plo's expression changes, shifts. He reaches out, and Feral ducks automatically, expecting a cuff, expecting a slap. Instead, though, Plo's capped claws curl around his shoulder, gripping lightly.

“No need to look so distressed,” he says gently. When Feral glances up at him warily, he gives him what must be a smile, eyes crinkling around the edges of his goggles. “No harm will come to you in my care. You have my word as a Jedi.”

Feral doesn’t know how much that’s worth. He doesn’t _know_ the Jedi. There were only a handful of mentions of them, in the village, and they were always framed as the enemy. The chances of an enemy being honorable feel…slim.

And yet, Sinker has been kind. None of them executed him on the battlefield. They’ve fed him and given him water and spoken to him easily, and it’s nothing like what Feral would have expected.

“Locking me up for the rest of my life isn't harm,” he points out, voice rough in his throat, like falling shale. “And you can still do that.”

“Ah, I suppose this is where our opinions differ,” Plo says, patting Feral’s shoulder before he draws his hand back. “I would most certainly consider it harm. There will be none of that, either.”

Feral blinks at him, startled. “Then…what can you do to me?” he asks, confused.

“I wonder,” Plo says cheerfully, and sets his hands on his knees. “What is your name, my child?”

Feral narrows his eyes at him, not entirely sure where this is going. “I'm a man,” he says warily, “by all the standards of Dathomir. And my name is Feral.”

“I meant no offense, but I see I have given it regardless,” Plo says, and there’s a trace of regret in his tone. “Please excuse me.”

Feral blinks, caught flat-footed by the apology. He doesn’t quite know how to react, and he hesitates.

“General,” Sinker says with a sigh, but the curl of his mouth is amused. Reaching over, he picks up the protein bar again and drops it in Feral’s hand, then says, “Eat that, or I’ll tell Payback.”

“That would be…bad?” Feral asks cautiously, but he tears the wrapper enough to get at the bar and takes a bite. It’s bland, and a little sticky, but not terrible. Certainly not terrible enough to choke someone over. Not that Feral could _ever_ choke someone without being physically ill, he’s sure; the memory of Savage snapping his neck is too close, too haunting for that.

Wolffe snorts, resting his hand on his belt. His wary eyes are still on Feral, but he hasn’t drawn a weapon yet, at least. “Payback,” he says dryly, “is a _mirsh’kyramud_ —”

Sinker rolls his eyes. “He’s good at guilt trips,” he says, before Feral can ask for a translation. “You skip one meal and suddenly it’s _I put so much work into stitching you up and keeping your insides from being your outsides, and this is how you pay me back?_ He’s insufferable.”

Feral gets the feeling his name is what it is for a reason, and he can't help but laugh a little. “I’ll eat,” he says, a little kernel of warmth in his chest that Payback would do the same to him, even though he’s not a clone. “Thank you.”

Sinker’s smile is a little crooked. “Thank me once we get you some real food. That doesn’t count.” He rises to his feet, giving Wolffe a look that Feral can't quite read, and asks, “Shift change, sir?”

“Yeah,” Wolffe says, steely, and there's a note in his voice that makes Feral cast him a wary glance. Instead of looking at him, though, Wolffe just turns on his heel and stalks to the edge of the cell, then hauls the door open. “General, are you done sightseeing?”

Plo chuckles, rising to his feet. “I’ll visit again tomorrow,” he says. “It was a pleasure to officially meet you, Feral.”

Tomorrow. Maybe an interrogation then, or—mind-reading, or some kind of questioning. Feral swallows, his will to eat falling rapidly as his stomach turns, and says, “Can I ask where we’re going, Master Koon?”

“Where the Force has directed us, I believe,” Plo says serenely. “It will be a most enlightening journey, I'm sure.” Without another word, he sweeps past Wolffe and out the main door, vanishing down the hall.

Wolffe sighs _deeply_ , pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “Kriffing _hell_ ,” he mutters, then jerks his head. “Comet, Warthog, get in here.”

Another pair of clones ducks into the room, straightening almost guiltily, and Feral dealt with enough of the young Nightbrothers who were sent to the village to recognize friends who were just roughhousing. He hides his smile, not wanting to get them in trouble, but Wolffe is already eyeing them suspiciously enough all on his own.

After a moment, though, he just frowns at them both and says, “One by the door, one in the cell. The _minute_ you think he’s about to try anything, shock him. Sinker, once he’s done eating I want his hands locked behind him again, understood?”

There's a moment of cool silence, deliberate and tense, and then Sinker says calmly, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Wolffe looks back, eyes lingering on Feral for a long moment, and Feral can _feel_ the flicker of fear, the steely determination not to let anyone else get hurt. Wolffe meets his eyes, and it’s both a dare and a warning, because with the pressure in his chest Wolffe can't manage anything less.

It makes Feral think of how he feels when he looks at Savage, sometimes. Without the undertones, maybe, but—

The edge of helpless fear is the same, and it makes Feral swallow hard.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Wolffe tells the other troopers curtly, then stalks out, gesturing to Boost. Boost climbs to his feet, giving Feral a quick, cheerful salute, and follows him, the door hissing shut behind him.

Feral’s stomach roils, but he swallows the last few bites of protein bar as quickly as he can. “Sorry,” he says to Sinker, who’s still waiting next to him.

“Take your time, I've got nowhere to be,” Sinker says mildly, and tips his head at the two clones still standing at attention. “One of you in here, like the commander said. Don’t just stand there looking pretty.”

“Aww, the sergeant thinks we’re pretty,” the one on the right jokes. He pulls off his helmet, setting it just outside the bars, and slips in, letting the other man lock the door behind him.

“Can we get that on record?” the other asks.

“Shut up,” Sinker says, giving them both a look. The one inside the cell just grins, and Feral can feel the real humor around him. There's no bravado, just a certainty that Sinker won't care about the joking, and it settles something in Feral’s chest that Wolffe and Plo's presence kicked loose.

“Yes, sir.” The clone looks at Feral curiously, then takes a step closer, and says, “You're sure that’s a Sith?”

“ _This_ ,” Sinker says pointedly, “is Feral. Feral, the loudmouth’s Comet. Warthog’s over by the door.” He looks Feral over for a moment, then asks, “Want some water before I lock you back up?”

“I'm all right, thank you.” Feral offers his hands, and Sinker unlocks the cuff around one wrist without fanfare. It makes Comet twitch towards his blaster, but Sinker ignores him, gently pulling Feral’s arms behind him and relocking the binders in place. He hesitates for a moment, then takes a breath and stands with a grimace.

“Payback and I will be back in the morning,” he says. “If your head starts hurting more than it should, tell Comet, all right?”

“All right,” Feral agrees, and he’s gotten enough concussions to know that this one is mostly healed, but the words make Sinker look relieved. He touches Feral’s shoulder briefly, right where Plo's hand rested, then steps away, nodding to Comet. Warthog lets him out of the cell, then another clone on the outside of the brig opens that door for him, and he vanishes down the hall.

Feral tries not to let the sinking feeling in his chest overwhelm him. He takes a breath, then gives Comet and Warthog his best attempt at a smile. “It’s good to meet you,” he says.

Comet looks at Warthog, who looks back, though he’s still wearing his helmet. There’s a distinct pause, and then Comet snorts. He drops down to sit by the barrier, then says, “Yeah, same. Good to meet a Sith who doesn’t just plow through whole squads and kill us all.”

Feral flinches, ducking his head. He _knows_ how Maul and Savage fight, and—normally it just seems like they're skilled warriors. But he thinks of how Maul or Savage would have gone straight through Sinker and his brothers, likely would have killed Wolffe the moment he tried to fight them, and—

It sits uneasily in his chest, a hard lump he can't breathe around.

“Sorry,” he says, barely able to get the word out. “I—I'm sorry.”

There's a startled pause, and then a scuff. “Hey,” Comet says. “Don’t—don’t do that, you're fine. You're _better_ than fine, I meant it about being glad, so just—come on, you're fine.”

Warthog snickers, reaching up to pull his helmet off as he sinks down in Boost’s abandoned chair. “Smooth, vod,” he says.

Comet makes what’s probably a rude gesture in his direction. “Shut your mouth. Uh. The sergeant said your name is Feral, right? Between you and Savage, I'm sensing a theme, so. All Zabraks have names like yours?”

Feral coughs out a laugh, the awkwardness breaking through the bubbling emotion in his chest. He raises his head, and Comet is watching him closely, but…he’s not hostile. It’s a relief. “All the male Nightbrothers do,” he says. “We’re named by the leader of the Nightbrothers, when we’re given over to the village.”

“Like squad leaders sometimes pick names for us,” Comet says, grinning. “That’s cool.”

Feral lets himself breathe out, smiles back. “Between the names and the markings, you're very like Zabraks,” he says. And—it’s a comfort, maybe, where there shouldn’t be one.

It’s certainly better than being held by the Nightsisters, and Feral tries desperately not to feel too guilty for the thought.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s only so many times Wolffe can prowl the hall outside the brig before Tracer starts giving him looks, which is incredibly irritating. Wolffe not being able to sleep happens frequently, after all, and it’s hardly the first time he’s been driven to check that a prisoner is still secure during the middle of his off-shift.

Still. Tracer is a coward who’s been known to call Sinker as soon as he thinks Wolffe is behaving irrationally, and Wolffe isn't in any sort of mood to deal with Sinker feeling judgmental, so he keeps his pacing to the top of the corridor, just outside the doors. Then, as the hours creep past with nothing changing, with no alerts and no sounds and no alarms, Wolffe reluctantly turns away, stalking through the upper halls of the cruiser and trying not to feel like he’s signing Comet and Warthog’s death certificates by doing so.

It’s fine. Plo is here. Plo knows that they have a Sith in their cells, and even if he’s reckless with his own safety, he’s never reckless with his troopers’ lives. It will be fine.

Wolffe makes himself breathe out, and since he’s alone in the hall he scrubs a hand over the unscarred side of his face. Doesn’t acknowledge the ache in the eye socket, the way the sight in his cybernetic eye is a little too sharp, a little too vivid, and forever just a little unnerving.

The Sith flinched when Wolffe just _looked_ at him, like he expected Wolffe to cut his throat right there.

His breath rattles on his next inhale, and Wolffe shoves away from the wall, heading for the tiny officer’s lounge that’s tucked away between meting rooms on this level. It’s out of the way, always deserted, and when Wolffe pushes in and closes the door behind him, the security of it is a relief. Does nothing to ease the itch that’s crawling down the back of his neck, but—that’s fine. It’s good to be alert. Especially with an enemy on board, ready to break out and murder their general.

Sinking down in one of the overstuffed chairs, Wolffe leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and closes his eyes. The tension winding down his spine makes his muscles ache, and he wants to go to the gym, punch something hard, but there will definitely be troopers there and he doesn’t want any form of company right now.

Seeing that red lightsaber ignite in the tower made his heart stop. He’d wanted to fling himself away, out the window after Plo, wanted to freeze up or falter or _run_ , but—

The Sith had cut through the floor, never even tried to turn it on him. He’d been focused on getting away, or making it _seem_ like he wanted to get away, and Wolffe doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw a rancor, but the act would be enough to convince him if he weren’t fully aware of what Sith are capable of.

“You know, if anyone else was sitting and brooding in the dark, I’d ask if they wanted to talk.”

“Lieutenant,” Wolffe growls, without lifting his head.

Undeterred, Payback takes a seat on the floor beside him, leaning back against the other chair. Wolffe scowls at him, but that doesn’t have an effect, either, and Payback just smirks at him, stretching his legs out.

“Don’t worry,” he says, dry. “I'm not about to force you to be verbal, Commander.” He rolls his shoulders, stretching out his arms, and then says, “No attempts to break out, then?”

“Not _yet_ ,” Wolffe says darkly.

Payback sighs, and in the light all the grey in his hair is more apparent, makes him look old even if greying early is just a genetic defect some clones share. “No,” he agrees. “Not yet. The general would probably say maybe not ever.”

Wolffe grimaces, looking away, and Payback snorts. “There's something to be said for Jedi intuition,” he points out.

“General Koon,” Wolffe says bleakly, “would adopt a nexu if he thought he could get away with it.”

Payback hums. “Only if he thought it wouldn’t be a danger,” he points out, because Payback is always a ruthlessly logical bastard. When Wolffe refuses to answer, though, he sighs, then says, “If you're just going to brood, Commander, get the hell out. This is where I destress after my shift, and if you're just going to fill the whole place with a miasma of suffering, I might as well go back to the medbay.”

“Maybe you should,” Wolffe says, but—battles are hard, and it’s always the medics who end up with the longest days, afterwards. He pushes to his feet, studying Payback for a moment, and says, “Don’t talk like that to your superiors or I’ll write you up.”

Payback raises one brow, precise. He looks infuriatingly amused. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”

Wolffe growls at him. “Don’t give me lip—”

“You know,” Payback says, just loud enough to bury Wolffe’s warning. “Just because his lightsaber is red doesn’t mean he’s a carbon copy of Ventress.”

Wolffe jerks back a step before he can stop himself, blood going cold. For an instant he can't hear anything over the pace of his heart, his vision blurring, his breath tangling hard in his lungs. One hand goes to his blaster automatically, and he tightens his fingers hard around the grip, muscles twitching like he’s about to draw it.

When his eyes focus again, Payback is watching him, calm, unwavering. There’s no judgement on his face, just something patient and steady that makes Wolffe’s skin crawl, and he shrugs one shoulder.

“Something to consider,” he says mildly. “Have a good night, Commander.”

Wolffe’s breath hisses out between his teeth, and he closes his eyes for a long second, then opens them again. “Expect a formal complaint in your file, Lieutenant,” he snaps.

Payback snorts, mouth curving. “Another one for my wall? You're too kind. I’ll have to start getting more frames at this rate, though.”

“You're an insufferable bastard,” Wolffe tells him.

“I'm everyone’s favorite,” Payback counters without hesitation. “And at least my face doesn’t scare the shinies.”

It’s not a dig at his scar. Wolffe _knows_ that. Payback doesn’t give a damn about that kind of thing.

That doesn’t mean the comment lands any easier.

“At least I'm not pining after the _general_ ,” Wolffe snaps, and Payback’s face loses two shades of color. Before Wolffe has to watch his reaction, though, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the lounge, cursing himself. He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t _want_ to say that. But—

Fear makes it easier to be cruel.

There's no way he’s going to sleep tonight. Instead, he turns back towards the brig, resigning himself to pacing outside the doors until either the shift changes or something happens. They're in hyperspace now, after all, and if the Sith is going to show his true colors, try to assassinate the general, now is when he’ll likely try it.

Wolffe has to stay alert. He has to stay focused, and not allow his temper to get the better of him. There are too many brothers on the line, and Plo as well.

Wolffe lost the whole Wolfpack once before, lost them to one mad cyborg and his superweapon. Only Sinker and Boost survived, out of tens of _thousands._ He’s not about to trust that the Sith they captured—and captured far too easily at that, with no one dead and no one injured and no one kriffing _tortured_ —is anything different this time around.

The stakes are too high. Wolffe won't let himself trust anything about this, because he can't afford to. No matter what.

“They're tattoos? _Really_? Maul’s too? But _how_?”

Feral hides his chuckle, letting Comet peer at the tattoos that curl across his palms. He spreads his fingers to make them more obvious, and is a little pleased when Comet doesn’t even flinch. “It’s traditional,” he says. “Nightbrothers get them to add to the markings we’re born with. The more markings we have, the better.”

“Don’t they hurt?” Warthog asks, leaning close to the bars as he looks, too. “I know brothers get tattoos in weird places, like Comet—”

“Hey!”

“—but hands are sensitive, and Dathomir doesn’t exactly have a lot of medical care, right?”

Feral shakes his head. “Not for the Nightbrothers,” he says. “We’re not meant to leave the village, so we make do. But Zabraks have a higher pain tolerance than most species, I think.”

“Still,” Comet says, leaning in, and Feral tries not to laugh as he pokes at one of the dark sweeps around Feral’s eyes. “You got _eye tattoos_. Those _had_ to have hurt. How crazy are you? Who gets tattoos around their _eyes_?”

“Those are my markings!” Feral protests, ducking his head. “I was born with those!”

The hiss of the door opening cuts off whatever Comet is going to say, and he and Warthog both jerk upright with guilty speed, Warthog scrambling back to take his position by the door. Comet throws himself back to the bars, trying to look watchful, but he mostly just manages hunted. Feral composes himself as best he can, trying to hide his laughter so he doesn’t give them away, and determinedly turns back to his abandoned ration bar. It’s a different flavor this time, and slightly mealier, but sweeter; Warthog had swapped the original one out for one of his own, telling Feral it was a crime to make him eat the other one.

“Good morning,” Plo says cheerfully, sweeping into the room. “Warthog, Comet, how are you today?”

“Good, General, thank you,” Warthog says, and coughs. “Uh. Here to see the prisoner, sir?”

Feral flinches, looking up, and finds Plo looking right back at him, dark goggles and rebreather hiding most of his expression. He freezes, not sure what to do, and sees Comet glance between him and Plo with obvious worry.

“Well,” Plo says judiciously, “I'm here to see Feral, if I'm not interrupting.”

“Not at all, sir,” Comet says, just a bit sheepishly. He looks back towards the door, then asks, with an air of knowing, “No Commander Wolffe this morning?”

Plo chuckles, waving an elegant hand. “I'm sure he’ll be along shortly,” he says, cheerful, “but I thought I’d let him sleep, seeing as he was up all night.”

Comet raises a brow, and Warthog snorts, stepping over to the cell to open the door. “I don’t think that the commander is going to thank you for it, sir,” he points out.

Plo hums, slipping into the cell and waving his thanks. “Wolffe will be just fine,” he says, and takes a step closer to Feral. It takes all of Feral’s will not to flinch back, and he swallows, raising his head to look at Plo more squarely.

If this is the part where Plo digs through his head, or takes his thoughts, or tortures him for information, Feral will bear it. He has to. He can't give up Savage and Maul. Betraying them is—impossible. He’ll kill himself first, attack Plo again and make the clones shoot him—

“Ah, I was hoping I would catch you during breakfast,” Plo says cheerfully, sinking down to sit with his legs crossed beneath him, and slides a hand into his sleeve. Feral jerks back, expecting a weapon, a threat, but his back hits the wall and he can't retreat any further from the—

The fruit. Not one Feral recognizes, but something pale gold and smaller than his fist, shining softly in the light. Plo offers it up in the palm of his hand, capped claws carefully out of the way, and his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling again.

“Here,” he says kindly. “I assumed you might appreciate a break from ration bars, Feral, and this is Sinker’s favorite. He thought you would like it.”

“Sinker did?” Feral swallows, glancing from the fruit to Plo's face. His heart is beating a little too fast in his chest, uncomfortable, uneasy, and he wants to ask how Sinker is, _where_ he is, because he promised to come back today, but he isn't sure whether he has the right.

Plo chuckles. “Indeed,” he says, easy, still holding the fruit out. “He has an early shift, and several matters to see to, so I volunteered to bring it with me. Such things tend to disappear from the mess.”

Comet snickers. “They disappear because Sinker shoves ten of them into his pockets at a time,” he says. “Nowhere is safe from him.”

But he wanted Feral to have this one, regardless of how much he likes them personally. Feral swallows again, but—it’s a much gentler feeling that’s caught in his throat this time. Carefully, he reaches out, picking the fruit up out of Plo's palm, and feels the delicate skin dent under his fingers. It’s soft, and he cradles it in his hands for a moment, not sure why he feels so caught. It’s just a fruit, and he’s still a prisoner, but—

But Sinker thought of him, and Plo brought it to him. They wanted him to have it so much they went out of their ways to get it to him, and Feral has no idea what to do with that.

“Thank you, Master Koon,” he says, a little ragged, and Plo hums, reaching out. Feral flinches, but Plo simply rests a hand on his horns for a moment. The same horns that made him bleed just a day ago, but—if Plo cares, if he resents Feral for their fight, it doesn’t show.

“No one will hurt you here, Feral,” he says, and pauses. “Darth Feral?”

It’s a question, but it still makes Feral pale. “No!” he says, quick protest, and then has to freeze, reminding himself that it’s probably a bad idea to yell at a Jedi Master. Takes a breath, and says more carefully, “Maul is the only Sith Lord, and Savage is his apprentice. I'm just—just a warrior who serves him.” Just the brother he didn’t want, but—Feral doesn’t need to say that. He tries not to mind it, too, because he and Maul are so different, and even beyond that, he’s very glad that Maul gets to have Savage’s care turned on him. Savage is a good brother, and Maul deserves kindness, being raised by a Sith.

Plo cocks his head, watching him. “But you care for Maul,” he says, gentle, less a judgement passed and more a simple statement of fact.

Feral hesitates, not sure how to answer that. Not sure what he can give away, and what he can't. He doesn’t want to be used as leverage over Maul, not that it would work; Maul would kill Feral himself if someone tried to use Feral against him. And—Savage might protest, but.

He can hardly look at Feral anymore, and Feral isn't sure how much of it is Savage blaming him for what happened at Mother Talzin’s hands, at Ventress’s hands, and how much is because Feral is so weak that saving him was practically for nothing.

“I do,” he finally says, because Jedi can feel emotions and there's no hiding that.

Plo inclines his head, unsurprised. “It is good to care for others,” he says kindly, and lifts his hand. Chuckles softly, and says, “Forgive me, I forget myself. Master Agen Kolar, a fellow Zabrak, enjoys having his horns touched. It’s a habit, I'm afraid.”

Feral takes a breath. No one except the Nightsisters have touched him since his resurrection, except in sparring; Savage was the last one to pet his horns, what feels like a lifetime ago, and—he’d forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten that he missed it.

“He must trust you quite a lot,” he says quietly. “Things like that are usually for family. At least on Dathomir.”

Cocking his head, Plo hums. “i knew him in the crèche,” he says, “before he found his Master. Agen was quite cute back then.”

“General Kolar? _Cute_?” Comet asks incredulously. “Doesn’t he pick fights with _Hutts_?”

“That certainly wouldn’t make him less cute,” Plo says cheerfully, and ignores the way Comet eyes him.

Feral can't help a chuckle. “Is he from Dathomir?” he asks Plo curiously. He’s never heard of a Jedi from Dathomir, but—males aren’t supposed to be Force-sensitive. If they are, they're meant to hide it, even among the other clans of witches. Those picked for breeding might mention it, but otherwise, only female Zabraks are trained to be able to touch the Force.

“Iridonia, I believe,” Plo says. “Though most initiates are brought to the Temple at a young age. He’s been back to visit his homeworld several times over the years, though.”

“I've always wanted to see Iridonia,” Feral says, and rolls the fruit between his bound hands, eyes on the golden skin. Wherever he presses too hard, it bruises a deep orange, and he quickly lightens his grip. “There are many stories of those who have escaped Dathomir for our sister planet, and I always liked them.”

“Is Dathomir that bad?” Comet asks, surprised.

“For males, it can be…unpleasant,” Feral allows after a moment, and glances up at Plo, unsure what he knows. “The Nightbrothers in particular.”

“I thought that was just the term for a male,” Comet says, frowning a little. “It’s different?”

Feral nods. “The Nightsisters are a heretic tribe, to the rest of the witches,” he says, watching Plo's face. He doesn’t seem surprised by the words. “The males of the tribe are their Nightbrothers.”

“An interesting system,” Plo says thoughtfully. “The witches of Dathomir are powerful, and a force to be feared.”

Feral swallows, reaching up to lay a hand over the mark Mother Talzin left on his throat when she resurrected him. She wasn’t willing to waste the sort of magics she used on Savage on him, but—she left him this, as a reminder. He owes his life to her, it’s meant to mean, but—

Feral has always thought, secret, angry, that he never would have died without her actions, and Ventress’s. They're the ones who turned Savage into a mindless beast, and he’ll never forgive either of them for it, regardless of what they claim he owes them.

“Well, my young friend,” Plo says gently, when Feral can't find the words to answer. “You’ve been in this cell for quite a while now. Perhaps you would like to stretch your legs?”

Warthog’s eyes widen with something that looks close to panic. “Uh, General, not that I think he’s going to rip your throat out or anything, but that _really_ seems like the kind of thing you should run by Commander Wolffe before you do it—”

“Nonsense,” Plo says cheerfully. “Wolffe will simply worry needlessly.”

“You know what else is needless?” Wolffe growls, and the roil of his anger as the door slides open makes Feral twitch back on instinct. “ _Our general_ putting himself in danger when that Sith has been in a cell for less than a full rotation and doesn’t need to be taken for a walk like some kind of dog.”

Feral winces, but he still raises his head, indignation prickling at his spine. “I'm not a dog,” he says, sharp, and rises to his feet. Instantly, Wolffe goes tense, hand snapping towards his blaster, but Feral takes a step to the side, around Plo, to face him squarely.

“I'm not mindless,” he says, more quiet but more pointed, holding Wolffe’s mismatched gaze. The look on Wolffe’s face is all contained violence, just burying his stomach-turning sense of alarm, the flicker-quick calculation that’s born of desperation to save both Plo and Comet equally.

Feral doesn’t _like_ people being scared of him. Maul cultivates it, and Savage uses it, but it makes Feral’s heart sink, makes him feel sick. He would even take hatred over fear, and though Wolffe has some of the former, the latter is…overwhelming.

“That,” Wolffe says flatly, “doesn’t make it better. If you _chose_ to be a Sith, there's no saving you.”

Feral’s never had a choice. He’s never had any sort of option. Mother Talzin brought him back to life, and Maul dragged him into training, and no one even thought to ask Feral if he wanted to be a warrior like his brothers. And—he would have picked them, no matter what. Of course he would have. But he still didn’t have anything close to a choice of his own in the matter.

He doesn’t say that, though. It won't matter to someone like Wolffe. Instead, he holds Wolffe’s gaze, and says, “I'm not going to hurt your brothers.”

Wolffe laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe a _Sith_.”

“You have my _word_ ,” Feral says quietly. He moves to tighten his fingers, then realizes he’s still holding Sinker’s fruit and stops short. Looks down at it, torn, and glances up to meet Wolffe’s eyes again, not letting himself waver.

“Your word as a Sith?” Wolffe asks, eyes narrowing.

“My word as someone who also has brothers,” Feral says, soft, and steps back. He inclines his head to Plo, still seated where he was, and says, “I'm sorry, Master Koon, but I think it’s better if I stay here.”

Plo hums, rising gracefully, and rests a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. “If you think so,” he says gently. “Eat, my young friend. Sinker will want to know if you liked it.”

“Is he coming today?” Feral asks, even as he tells himself he shouldn’t be too hopeful. Sinker is a soldier, and has duties, and—

Plo chuckles. “I doubt much of anything could keep him away,” he says kindly, and pats Feral on the shoulder before he steps away. Warthog hurries to open the cell door for him, and he touches Warthog’s arm in thanks, then says, “He told me he would be down after his shift ended, and Payback finished with the last of the morning’s patients. It shouldn’t be too long now.”

“Thank you,” Feral tells him, and Plo bows cheerfully to him and then turns on his heel, heading for the door.

Wolffe stays where he is, watching Feral, for a very, very long moment. Then, curtly, he says, “Warthog, you’ve got a starfighter to repair. I’ll finish out your shift.”

Comet winces.

“Uh. Yes, sir,” Warthog says, a little warily, but he still turns to give Feral a lazy salute. “Later, Feral.”

“It was good to meet you,” Feral returns, determinedly ignoring Wolffe as Warthog leaves. He takes a seat on the narrow cot instead of the floor, turning the fruit over in his hands again, and asks Comet, “Do I need to peel it?”

Comet shakes his head, though he casts a sidelong look at Wolffe before he moves closer. “No, it should be thin enough to bite through. Zabraks have sharp teeth, right?”

Feral opens his mouth, pulling his lips back to show off pointed canines and the sharp-tipped teeth around it. “We started as carnivores,” he says. “Or so the legends say.”

“Huh.” Comet sounds delighted. “You're felines, too, right? Do you purr? Can you purr for me?”

Feral flushes, jerking his head up. “Don’t just _ask_ that!” he says, horrified.

“What? What’s wrong?” Comet protests. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just _wondering_ —”

Wolffe rolls his eyes skyward. “ _Comet_ ,” he says, gruff. “Pay attention. He looks like you just propositioned him, so stop.”

Bewildered indignation washes over Comet’s face. “I didn’t!” he says, then sneaks a glance at Feral and pauses. “Wait, I _did_?”

“ _Can you purr for me_ is…” Feral hesitates. “It’s…”

“A bad pickup line,” Wolffe finishes, watching him closely. “A raunchy one.”

Relieved, Feral nods. He doesn’t know quite how to feel about Wolffe stepping in, but—it’s better than having to explain himself.

“Don’t say that to a Zabrak unless you mean it,” he tells Comet.

Comet winces. “How about we don’t tell Sergeant Sinker I propositioned you with Zabrak dirty talk?” he says hopefully. “Ever. At all.”

Wolffe snorts, sinking down in Warthog’s chair. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, and his gaze hasn’t wavered, but some of the furious panic in him is subsiding. He’s still ready to attack, one hand close to is blaster, but—it’s watchful now, like a predator sunk down into the swamp grass to wait, rather than aggressive.

“He’ll find out anyway,” he says cynically. “Sinker’s got a nose for that kind of thing.”

Comet grimaces, then pauses. He looks at Wolffe, then at Feral, and says, “So wait—”

Wolffe rolls his eyes so hard it must physically _hurt_.

Undeterred, Comet ignores him and forges on. “If I said that to General _Kolar_ , he’d—”

With a pained sigh, Wolffe splays a hand over his face, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the whole galaxy than here and listening to this.

Feral covers his mouth with a hand, hiding his grin. “I'm not sure how an Iridonian Zabrak would take it,” he says diplomatically. “But…I’d still only say it if you mean it.”

“Of course I’d mean it,” Comet says, offended. “Have you _seen_ General Kolar? With that hair? With those horns? With those _grenades_?”

He sounds awed, and Feral has to duck his head to muffle his giggles, even as Wolffe groans.

“Comet,” he growls, “get your head out of Kolar's thermal detonators and _back to guard duty_.”

“I'm just _saying_ ,” Comet huffs, sounding offended. He leans back against the wall, looking put-upon, and asks Feral, “So he probably wouldn’t be _offended_ , right—”

“ _Comet_ ,” Wolffe snaps, and Feral can't help it; he breaks down laughing, still flushed, still trying to catch his breath from the giggles.

The sound of Wolffe’s put-upon sigh doesn’t help. “Look,” he says pointedly. “You made the Sith laugh. Congratulations. Now can you finally pretend to do your job?”

“Yes, sir.” Comet sounds sulky, and Feral can't stop picturing him asking some regal, noble Jedi Master to _purr_ for him, and it sets him off laughing even harder.

“Hey!” Comet protests with a sound of deep offense. “It’s not _that_ funny. Feral, stop it!”

Feral waves, as close as he can get to an apology while he’s still trying hard to breathe, but he still can't stop laughing.

“You know what?” Wolffe mutters. “I'm with the Sith on this one.”

“ _Commander_!”


	5. Chapter 5

There are no clocks in the brig, and Feral’s sense of passing time is skewed by empty cells and too-bright lights, but it feels like several hours later when the door slides open again. Wolffe tenses, and Comet straightens, but instead of Plo or some sort of threat, it’s just Sinker. He pauses, eyeing Wolffe in Warthog’s chair, and then sighs through his nose and doesn’t comment.

Behind him, Payback ignores Wolffe completely as he enters with a medkit, and there's a buried roil of offense and anger around him that makes Feral’s skin prickle.

“Morning, Feral,” Sinker says, and offers him a small smile. “Were you warm enough last night?”

“Good morning,” Feral returns, and slides off the cot. “I was, and thank you for the fruit.”

“Of course.” Sinker pauses at the locked door, then turns to raise a brow at Wolffe. “Medical check for the prisoner, Commander,” he says, pointed.

“And here I thought you were just sightseeing,” Wolffe says sourly. Even so, he rises to his feet, coming over to unlock the cell door, and ignores Payback determinedly. “Comet, stay alert.”

Comet pulls a face where Wolffe can't see, but obediently raises his blaster, though he’s not quite pointing it at Feral. “Yes, sir.”

Sinker raises a silent brow, but steps in, and asks, “Any headache?”

“No, it went away yesterday,” Feral tells him, and smiles at Payback. “Good morning.”

Something flickers over Payback’s face, and half a second later the slightly crooked smile he wore yesterday rises. “Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” he says and tips his chin at the cot, ignoring the disgusted sound Wolffe makes. “If you’ll sit down, I need to make sure my patch job is still holding. Sinker’s good at his job.”

Sinker grimaces, setting a small bag down at his feet. “Payback,” he complains, but Feral has to swallow a chuckle. He settles on the cot, crossing his legs beneath himself, and stays still as Payback runs the scanner over his head, then gently tips his chin to the side to check the spot where Sinker hit him.

“Lucky you're a Zabrak,” Payback says after a moment. “Looks like you healed up just fine, and even faster than most species would have.”

“I've been told I have a hard head,” Feral says, amused, and it hurts to think of Savage saying that, of the time before he was Dooku’s apprentice and then Maul’s, but—well. The memories are still there, regardless of whether Feral chooses to touch them. He might as well remember the good things that came before, knowing that.

“Not as hard as some, but you do,” Payback says, and the brush of fingers on one of Feral’s horns makes him twitch sharply. Instantly, Payback’s touch lightens, and he makes a sound of apology. “Sorry, but this one’s chipped. Was it like that before?”

Feral blinks, not expecting that. A Zabrak’s horns are meant to be a weapon, and they're sturdy. He didn’t have any broken horns the last time he checked. “No,” he says. “Which one?”

Payback touches it again, and when Feral is expecting it, the feeling is much easier to deal with. “Here. The tip’s gone, kind of jagged. I don’t have a mirror with me or I’d show you.”

Maybe it chipped when Sinker hit him, Feral thinks, wishing he could reach up and touch it for himself. He hasn’t otherwise done anything that would result in a broken horn. It’s not as if it matters.

“Kriff, did I do that?” Sinker asks, and a flicker of distress curls through the feel of him. He takes a step forward, looking as well, and grimaces. “Sorry, Feral.”

“It’s fine,” Feral says quickly. “They can break if you hit them a certain way, that’s all. No one really minds, it’s like having scars.”

That doesn’t make Sinker look any happier, but when Payback waves an impatient hand at him, he lets himself be harried back out of the medic’s light. “Well, I think they have prosthetics, or patches, if you want one,” Payback says, and his scanner flickers red for a moment. He pulls back, frowning at it, and says, “I can get one easily, given the number of Zabraks in the Order. Just let me know.”

Warmth flickers in Feral’s chest and he can't keep himself from smiling. “Thank you,” he says, “but I don’t mind.”

Payback makes a distracted sound of agreement, though his gaze is still on the scanner. “Tip your head back,” he says. “Look at the ceiling.”

Feral does as he’s ordered, not entirely comfortable baring his throat so clearly but not about to protest. Payback’s fingers are a little cool, but steady where they settle on his neck, and Feral can feel his consternation rise, the confusion at whatever readings he’s getting, and belatedly remembers the mark Mother Talzin seared into his skin. Just as Payback’s hand slides that way, he wrenches back, colliding with the wall, hears Wolffe’s snarled warning and freezes solid.

There's a blaster pistol aimed at him, cold eyes behind it. Wolffe has one hand on Payback’s elbow, the medic pulled halfway behind him, and Payback looks startled, though his eyes are on Wolffe instead of Feral.

Feral doesn’t quite dare to move. He lets his gaze slide up to meet Wolffe’s mismatched eyes, holds them as best he can. Swallows, and says, “That symbol—it’s Nightsister magic. I don’t know what it will do to you if you touch it. I can't—I couldn’t grab your hand to stop you, I'm sorry.”

There’s a slow breath, and then very deliberately Sinker steps closer, putting himself between Feral and Comet, who has his blaster raised but a conflicted look on his face. “That’s fine,” he says calmly. “Does it change you the way Savage was changed?”

“No,” Feral says quickly, shaking his head. “Savage is a Sith apprentice, they needed him to be powerful. I was—I was hurt very badly once, and Mother Talzin brought me back. That’s what it’s from. I just don’t know what it will do to anyone else.”

“No touching, then, got it,” Payback says, and turns his hand, squeezing Wolffe’s forearm. “I'm fine, Commander. Just got startled.”

Wolffe’s breath is low and harsh, but he nods curtly, holstering his blaster. Instead of leaving the cell again, he simply stays where he is, gaze on Feral. “Take your readings from a distance,” he says.

Payback rolls his eyes a little. “Medical scanners don’t come with a long-distance setting,” he says dryly, and steps around Wolffe, approaching Feral again. “It would make my life a hell of a lot easier if they did.”

“But then you wouldn’t have an excuse to torture us in person,” Sinker says, equally dry, and Payback gives him a smile that’s a little crooked.

“You say that like you lot wouldn’t give me plenty of chances even so,” he says. “Okay, Feral, two more scans and then you’ll be free of me.”

“No one’s ever free of you,” Wolffe mutters, though his eyes flicker to Payback for an instant like he’s checking his reaction to the words.

“I'm a blessing,” Payback counters. “You’re fortunate to have me, because I deal with all the bantha shit that goes on so that you don’t have to, Commander, and you should appreciate that.”

Wolffe doesn’t answer, just huffs, but Payback smiles a little like he scored a point all the same. When the scanner flickers green, he pulls back, claps Feral lightly on the shoulder, and says, “Thanks, Feral. Excuse me, Commander, Sergeant.”

A little bemused, Feral watches him let himself out of the cell, then leave the room, eyes already on his scanner. He glances at Sinker, who rolls his eyes but just says, “That’s an all-clear, more or less. If there was anything wrong he would have dragged you to the medbay without pausing to breathe.” He picks up the bag he brought, then says, “I brought lunch. Real food, this time, since Comet wasn’t in the mess to eat all of it."

“Hey!” Comet protests, offended, and Feral ducks his head to hide his smile. When Sinker puts a hand on his shoulder, tugging him around, he moves easily, and Sinker unlocks one of his cuffs.

“Shinies get picked on. You should be used to it by now,” Wolffe says, and after a long moment he steps back, bracing his back against the bars. His gaze stays on Feral until the cuffs are both back on, Feral’s hands chained in front of him, and then he allows himself to relax just a little.

“I'm _not_ a shiny,” Comet complains. “I have paint! On my armor! I saved _multiple Jedi_!”

“Still the youngest,” Sinker says mildly. “Until we get another batch of shinies, you're _our_ shiny, kid.”

Comet rolls his eyes, and Feral chuckles. “A shiny is someone without paint on their armor?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sinker says, and drops another of the golden fruits in his hands. “We paint our armor to reflect things that have happened to us, or things we believe. No paint, no experience. Means the clone inside is new and shiny, just like their armor.”

Not quite like Zabraks—after all, some Nightbrothers choose not to get tattoos at all—but it still makes Feral smile. He reaches up, then hesitates, glancing at Sinker’s face for permission. Sinker nods agreeably, and Feral runs his fingers over the narrow grey stripes on his spaulder, tracing the way they rise and fall like waves. There's no offer for an explanation, so Feral doesn’t ask; such things are often private for Nightbrothers, and there are some traditional patterns, but even those can have unique meaning depending on placement.

“The grey is pretty,” Feral says, and pulls his hands back, cupping the fruit Sinker gave him. “It reminds me of the songbirds that live deep in the swamps.”

Sinker’s mouth curls, crooked, rueful. “It’s a color of mourning, for Mandalorians,” he says. “The original Wolfpack—our battalion. Grievous killed all of them in one blow. Wolffe, Boost, and I were the only survivors besides the general.”

Feral’s breath locks in his throat, horror icing his blood. He stares at Sinker, not sure what to say, not able to image losing that much all at once, or surviving if he did. “They—your brothers?” he asks, voice cracking, and Sinker inclines his head.

“Grey for mourning,” he says. “Almost thirty thousand lost in one day, but—we survived. And we’re the Wolfpack again. We remade it.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Feral says, which isn't anywhere close to enough, but all he has. Carefully, gently, he curls his fingers over Sinker’s, feels Sinker squeeze in return.

“There's a reason we’re fighting the Seps,” Wolffe says, low, all buried anger, but it’s not directed at Feral in particular. Feral can feel that, the spread of it, the weight. Wolffe is angry at everything, and Feral can hardly blame him, thinking of what happened.

Thirty thousand brothers, all lost. Four survivors, four lives spared by the sacrifice, and Feral can hardly bear to contemplate it.

“I see that,” Feral says quietly, and meets Wolffe’s eyes. “And I would do the same, if I were you.”

Wolffe’s expression twists. “You're _one_ of them,” he snaps, and straightens, taking a step forward. “You’re helping the Seppie war effort, _Sith_. If you’d taken out that comm tower, thousands more of our brothers would have died.”

Oh, Feral thinks, swallowing, and has to look down. Down at the fruit Sinker pressed into his hands, and—

He closes his eyes. Wolffe is right. Mother Talzin is helping the Separatist war effort, and so is Feral when he follows her orders. They're killing the clones, and maybe Feral hasn’t done it _personally_ , but—at what point is he culpable?

At what point does it matter, when Maul and Savage are so determined to keep their power, to keep fighting this war?

“I'm sorry,” he says, and means it, carved into his bones. “I don’t—don’t want to kill your brothers, but I can't—”

 _I can't betray mine_ , he doesn’t say. Won't, because even that is a betrayal. He can't give the Jedi any sort of leverage over Maul and Savage, even if it won't amount to much should they try to use it.

There's a low, dark sound above his head, then steps. Feral raises his head just in time to see Wolffe stalk through the door, shoulders stiff, back straight. Fury roils around him, fury and old pain, and Feral wants to reach out—

But it won't be welcome, and instead he bows his head again, trying to breathe.

“We’re all on different sides,” Sinker says after a moment, and he settles on the cot beside Feral, bumping their shoulders together. “And we’ve all got our own reasons for it. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s fighting because of pure selfishness, Feral.”

Feral has two reasons, and he’d thought they were the best he could possibly have. But for the first time since Maul stepped into the cell where Mother Talzin was keeping him, Feral has a sinking sort of suspicion that he’s on the wrong side, and his reasons for it might be a lot more selfish than he’d realized.

Payback is already done processing the scans he took when Wolffe slips into the quiet medbay, leaning against his desk and frowning at a dozen holoscreens pulled up around him. He glances up briefly, but his brow is furrowed in a way that means he only vaguely recognizes Wolffe’s presence, and he goes back to the displays a moment later, flicking through different readouts and charts without pausing.

Wolffe snorts quietly, making his way across the room and pulling himself up onto a biobed to watch Payback work. He’s not scared of the medbay, unlike most of the Wolfpack seems to be; the sight of a handful of clones in curtained rooms reminds him of survivors, of brothers getting better, and it eases a knot of tension that he always seems to carry with him.

“Are you bleeding out?” Payback asks, still distracted, and Wolffe rolls his eyes.

“Would you care even if I was?” he asks pointedly.

“There are droids for that,” Payback retorts, but he does lift his head long enough to give Wolffe an assessing once-over before he goes back to his charts. “You look like someone just called you Republic property, though.”

Wolffe grimaces, rubbing a hand over his face, and leans back a little. “Another assassination,” he says. “A senator who was advocating for peace talks. Big, messy, and very clearly a hired hit.”

Payback pauses, eyes flickering to Wolffe. “That’s the fourth,” he says, frown deepening. “Call me paranoid, but I’d think that was a pattern.”

Fox thinks so, too. He always looks like he’s one bad day away from a stress-induced murder spree, but when Wolffe commed him this time it was worse than normal. There’d been nothing said outright, because Fox isn't that kind of vod, but Wolffe gets the feeling that he’s not being allowed to investigate it as anything but a series of unconnected assassinations, and Wolffe doesn’t like that fact any more than Fox does.

“They haven’t found a connection,” he says, bland.

Payback raises an incredulous brow at him. “Then I assume they're not looking,” he says, and Wolffe sighs through his nose. A second brow slides up to join the first, and Payback scoffs, then closes the screens in front of him with a wave of his hand. “Really? Four isn't enough?”

“Apparently not.” Three senators and an admiral, but—the Republic has a lot of other things to deal with at the moment. Wolffe doesn’t like it, especially because the most recent one happened on the senator’s home planet, far too close to their destination for comfort. No Jedi have been targeted yet, but—Wolffe just doesn’t like it, that’s all.

Having a Sith on their ship isn't helping at all, either.

“Anything?” he asks, tipping his head at where the screens were.

Payback pauses for a moment, weighing his response. “I suppose that depends on how you define _anything_ ,” he says, and when Wolffe scowls at him, he rolls his eyes. “He’s on the thin side, and there’s evidence of past malnutrition, plus several old injuries that weren’t exactly treated at a high-class medical facility. Most of it’s probably standard for a place like Dathomir. But…”

Wolffe doesn’t like the sound of that, and he’s mostly resigned to it at this point. “But?” he echoes warily.

With a flick of his fingers, Payback calls one of the holoscreens back up, sweeps a hand over its surface to flip to the next image, and then spins it around so Wolffe can see it more clearly. Sliding to his feet, Wolffe takes two steps closer, leaning in. It’s an image of Feral’s neck, bones pale against the dark background, and he studies it for a moment, eyes lingering on the dark sigil that stands out in red, even on the image. Glances up, raising a brow at Payback, because he’s the furthest thing from a medic, and gets a faint huff in return.

“Here,” Payback says, and his fingertip circles a spot high up in the spinal column. “There’s a fracture that’s been healed, but you can see where the break was. It was a severe one—I’d say the fact that Feral is still alive is more medical miracle than anything else.”

“He is a Zabrak,” Wolffe points out, straightening, but—there’s something itching at him. Some sort of connection, but he can't quite grasp it.

Payback shakes his head. “Even for a Zabrak, severing the spinal cord would kill them instantly,” he says. “Their bones are tougher, but once those break? They're just as likely to die as a Human.” He waves the screen back down, then folds his arms over his chest. “That’s the only off thing. That and the mark on his neck. No chips I can find, no implants, no explosives or whatever else you're worried about. Commander.”

“You didn’t need to call him pet names,” Wolffe tells him pointedly.

“Sure I did. It annoyed you.” Payback slants him his most charming smile, and he’s unfortunately right about nearly everyone on board liking him, the bastard; he uses charm and wiles to get what most medics Wolffe’s met get with badgering and intimidation or pulling rank. If only most of the Wolfpack could see the same rat bastard Wolffe does, he thinks, scowling.

But—

Wolffe looks away for a long moment as Payback gathers up the datapads scattered over his desk. Takes a breath, because he’s learned his lesson about leaving things unsaid, and then offers, “The way you feel. About the general—”

Payback hums, soft. “Just a crush,” he says, light, even if the look on his face is wry. “What clone doesn’t get a crush on their Jedi at one point or another? I shouldn’t have mentioned your face.”

Wolffe flips him off, and that at least makes Payback smile a little, smug like he normally is. “Maybe,” he allows. “But—”

“Leave it alone, Commander,” Payback says firmly. He studies Wolffe for a moment, then says, “You haven’t been sleeping.”

Wolffe refuses to admit to anything, because even if he denies it on the grounds that it’s technically not true, Payback will pry the truth out of him anyway, and he won't be impressed by Wolffe splitting hairs. “There’s a _Sith_ ,” he says instead. “On our ship. In a brig not designed to hold Force-users.”

“With two clones on guard,” Payback counters mildly, “when he’s already proved he’d let himself be captured before killing. And the general thinks he’s safe.”

Plo can't save them from everything, though. And if the Sith breaks loose, Plo will likely be the first one in danger. Wolffe rests a hand on the hilt of his blaster, then takes a breath.

“I'm not going to risk the general’s life on his _hunch_ ,” he says.

For a long moment, Payback doesn’t answer, just watches Wolffe closely. Then, quiet, he says, “He’s a Jedi, Wolffe. At some point you _have_ to trust his hunches, or there’s nothing setting him apart from the rest of us except his lightsaber. There’s a reason the Jedi were drafted to lead armies.”

The truth of it settles like an unpleasant lump in Wolffe’s stomach, and he growls, rubbing a hand over his good eye. Payback’s right, but it doesn’t sit easy, and Wolffe doesn’t want him to be. The Jedi are warriors, and they're able to turn battles singlehandedly, but they're not all-powerful.

They die too easily for that.

(Plo almost did. When Grievous destroyed the _Triumphant_ , he could have died instantly, could have been in one of the cracked escape pods. Could have ended up spaced, and even if he’s a Kel Dor, he couldn’t have survived more than a few minutes in hard vacuum. Wolffe’s had nightmares about things going just a little differently and ending in even _more_ tragedy, ever since, and he’s sure he always will.)

A hand grips his shoulder, and Payback pulls him in, gently knocking their foreheads together. Then, before Wolffe has to come up with a reaction, he steps past him, heading for one of the occupied beds along the wall.

“Get out of the medbay unless you're hurt, Commander,” he says over his shoulder. “You're breathing air I need for patients.”

“Just because you're CMO doesn’t mean you're irreplaceable,” Wolffe tells him sourly, and doesn’t look at the wall of framed complaints that Payback takes great pleasure in adding to. He’s a bastard. Wolffe doesn’t know why no one else seems to see it. “I can ask for a new model from Kamino at any time.”

“You’d miss me if I was gone,” Payback says, unbothered. “Jag would too, wouldn’t you, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot says, grinning as he pushes up on one elbow. “Desperately.”

“See? I'm absolutely irreplaceable.” Payback pats Jag on the head, then warns, “No more exploding your starfighters in the hangar, though. I don’t need to be _that_ irreplaceable.”

Jag winces, and Wolffe rolls his eyes, turning on his heel and leaving the bay. He’s not going to argue against Plo picking up a disgraced former commander to be the cruiser’s chief test pilot, but he doesn’t want to hear about any potential damage before the report crosses his desk. It’s better to see things in writing sometimes.

Given the way the day is going, it’s somehow completely unsurprising to see Plo waiting for him in the hallway, calm and composed with his hands clasped behind him. When he catches sight of Wolffe, he smiles gently, and offers, “Wolffe. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, sir.” Wolffe comes to a halt in front of him, eyeing him a little warily. “What is it?”

Plo hums lightly. “I was hoping to visit Feral again,” he says, “and I assumed it would set your mind at ease if you accompanied me, rather than having to follow belatedly.” His eyes crinkle faintly, even if he’s hiding the amusement in his voice well, and Wolffe huffs.

“Didn’t you already visit him once today?” he asks, but turns towards the brig.

Plo falls into step with him, expression thoughtful. “Well, yes, but I would rather like to test a theory, and it requires frequent exposure.”

Wolffe eyes him sidelong. “His exposure to you, or yours to him?”

With a chuckle, Plo tips his head. “That is the question, isn't it?” he asks cheerfully. Wolffe gives him a flat look, but he doesn’t seem to notice, just leads the way down one deck and to the brig, where Mortar is on guard outside the door. He jerks to attention and salutes, and Plo nods amiably.

“Mortar,” he says kindly. “Doing well?”

“Warmer than our last deployment, sir,” Mortar says, and gets the door for them. He nods to Wolffe, then steps back, returning to his post, and Wolffe wishes that he didn’t know that, should the worst happen, Mortar and every clone like him won't be nearly enough to stop the Sith.

“Wolffe,” Plo says, and glance back at him, pausing right in the open doorway. The security risk makes Wolffe’s bones ache, but Plo just smiles like he knows what he’s thinking and says, “Sinker stopped Feral once already, without injury to himself or any other trooper. Have faith that such a thing can happen again.”

Wolffe doesn’t look at Mortar, who’s attempting desperately to blend in with the paneling. “Yes, sir,” he says grimly. “But with all due respect, General, wasn’t it just a little too easy?”

Plo cocks his head, studying Wolffe, and then says, “Not for Feral. Nothing about the choices he made yesterday was easy for him, but he made them anyway. The choice to run, the choice not to engage, the choice not to kill. Those are choices to be admired, even in an enemy. Perhaps especially in an enemy.”

Wolffe breathes in, closes his eyes. Feels the low-level burn in the cybernetic one that never quite goes away. “Yes, sir,” he says, and—

Well. It’s not quite blind agreement. But the reminder that Plo is working with more than just a soldier’s senses, could _feel_ what the Sith was feeling, makes something slide down Wolffe’s spine, cool like relief instead of icy like terror. Between that and Payback’s words, Wolffe can let out that same breath and not feel it shake, can agree and not feel like he’s condemning Plo when he does it.

He thinks of the Sith's laughter at Comet’s bumbles, the way he tried to hold himself together and spare Comet’s feelings right up until he couldn’t anymore. Lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, pulls his spine straight, and when Plo turns and sweeps into the brig, Wolffe is one step behind him, just the way he always is.

There's still a hand near his blaster, ready to draw it, but he meets the Sith's eyes through the bars and doesn’t feel the need to flinch, or the urge to hide it with anger, so—

That’s probably a start.


	6. Chapter 6

“You want to what?” Feral asks, not quite willing to trust his ears.

“Meditate with you,” Plo repeats calmly, kindly. The corners of his eyes are crinkled, like he’s smiling behind his mask, and Feral can't pick out any sort of threat, any ulterior motives. He just feels _calm_ , and it’s—nice.

Maul is never calm. A Sith's meditation is a way to focus anger, and hatred, and Maul is very, very good at it. Feral can't even be near him when he’s doing that; it vibrates wrong along his nerves, crawls down his spine and tears at his throat, and he’s just—unnerved, constantly.

When Savage does it, Feral has to lock himself in his room and try not to cry, because Savage was _never_ like that. Savage always cared, and he felt frustration and anger but not like this. Never like this. And whatever he’s turning into, under Maul’s teaching, Feral can't stand it.

“I don’t meditate,” Feral says quickly, and his hands are still cuffed behind him so he can't raise them to fend Plo off, but he slides back along the floor towards the far wall, putting a little more distance between them. “I don’t—I don’t need it, and I'm not going to lose control, so—”

Plo chuckles, and he settles down on the tiles, crossing his legs beneath himself. “You do seem to have a good grasp on your control,” he says kindly, and cocks his head, then reaches out, patting the space in front of him. “Perhaps a few moments of meditation will help you sleep better, my friend.”

Feral freezes, not entirely certain what to say to that. Not sure how Plo _knows_. He doesn’t tend to sleep well away from Dathomir, away from the security of a room with locks on the inside and a bed in a dark corner, but—

“I can feel it,” Plo explains gently. “There is a weight to your thoughts, and your mind is slow at odd moments. Perhaps clearing your thoughts could help.”

Feral swallows, glancing from Plo to Sinker in the corner to Wolffe leaning by the door of the cell. He hesitates for a long moment, able to feel the way Wolffe is watching him, cool and wary, but not outright hostile, and—that helps. It’s easier to think without a press of anger and frustration in his head. But his skin still crawls a little at the idea of summoning that much hatred, that much anger. It’s _hard_. Feral doesn’t hate easily, even when he probably should.

“But,” Feral says quietly, “I…really don’t like it.”

Plo considers this for a moment, serious, steady. “Would you come sit with me for a moment, Feral?” he asks, and the weight of his gaze makes Feral’s skin prickle. “You needn’t meditate if you don’t wish to, but I would like to show you something.”

Feral is a prisoner here. If Plo wanted, he could force it, have Sinker and Wolffe haul Feral into the center of the room and hold him there, but—he isn't. He’s asking. And because of that, Feral swallows and nods, sliding forward carefully. He pauses when he’s about half a meter away, but Plo just chuckles, beckoning him further forward.

“Come, come,” he says easily. “The rebreather keeps me from biting, I promise.”

Feral can feel a touch of heat in his cheeks, and he levels a look at Plo that’s as indignant as he can manage. “You said you had a Zabrak friend,” he protests. “Don’t say that.”

“Agen? Oh, yes, we’re very good friends,” Plo says cheerfully, though Feral can feel a flicker of effervescent mischief around him. “Kel Dor don’t have nearly the hang-ups about biting Zabraks do, however.”

“I suppose,” Feral says, a little grumpy about it, heat still high in his cheeks. “But _I_ do.”

Plo's chuckle is gentle. “My apologies, then, my friend. No talk of biting.”

“Is this like the purring?” Sinker asks, a little wary, and folds his arms over his chest.

Plo tilts his head. “Did someone tell Feral to purr?” he asks, concerned. “I can have a word with them, if it’s necessary.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Feral says quickly. “He wasn’t familiar with Zabraks, and didn’t know—”

“Maybe have a word with Comet anyway,” Wolffe says, dry. “Force knows he needs it at least once a week anyway.”

Plo chuckles. “Ah, Comet was the culprit? I'm not surprised to hear that, given his ability to let his mouth run away with him.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it, General.” Wolffe straightens a little, glancing at the clock, and then says, “You have a meeting in an hour, sir.”

Flicking a hand dismissively, Plo reaches out. “Adi will wait for me, even if I'm late,” he says peaceably, and when Wolffe growls, he just chuckles. “It won't be that long, Wolffe, don’t worry.”

“The commander always worries,” Sinker says, amused, and ignores the dark look Wolffe shoots him. “Want the keys, sir?”

“I have mine, but thank you, Sinker.” There's a click, and the pressure around Feral’s wrists gives. Plo pulls his arms in front of him, running his fingers over the marks left by the cuffs, and gently rubs away the trace of stiffness there. Feral isn't quite sure what to do, has no idea how to respond to this bit of kindness, and he stays frozen where he is, letting Plo ease away the soreness.

Plo makes no move to replace the cuffs, either, even when Wolffe takes a very deliberate step towards them.

“There we are,” he says instead, and gently sets Feral’s hands back in his lap. “Feral, you’ve meditated before?”

“Yes,” Feral says, flexing his fingers and trying very hard not to look at Wolffe, who’s suddenly twice as tense. “It’s not—it makes it _harder_ to control myself, I shouldn’t—”

With a quiet chuckle, Plo leans in, catching Feral’s hands in his own. “Can you feel my mind?” he asks, and when Feral nods, he beams like this is an impressive accomplishment instead of basic Force empathy. “Perfect. And tell me, Feral, how were you taught to meditate?”

Feral blinks at him, a little bewildered by the question. “The—the usual way?” he says. “I focus on an emotion, and concentrate on it. Build it, and let it rise, and refine it.”

Behind Plo, Wolffe frowns, eyes narrowing. Before he can say anything, however, Plo hums thoughtfully.

“And you say you don’t like it?” he asks, not questioning, just checking. When Feral nods carefully, he smiles. “Well, perhaps I have a fix. There are other ways to meditate, and they might suit you better.”

“Others?” Feral asks, surprised, and—it shouldn’t be. He knows hundreds of planets have their own Force traditions, just as Dathomir has the witches. Mother Talzin once mentioned that the Jedi have a habit of combining their Force traditions with those of other planets, because they take Jedi from those planets and accept them into the Order, so it stands to reason a Jedi would have more than the Nightsisters. “Oh.” He looks down at Plo's claw covers, the twisting designs in grey against the lacquered white, and realizes belatedly that Plo's vambraces and claw covers both echo the designs of his troopers’ armor. That’s…sweet. “I didn’t realize there were other ways.”

“Being taught only one way works for some people,” Plo says cheerfully. “But perhaps an alternate method will help you. Would you like to learn?”

Feral swallows. He’s never been able to learn Maul’s method, or Mother Talzin’s, to the point that he would do practically anything to get out of practicing either one. It makes him a disappointment, a burden, especially when Savage is so skilled and eager to learn everything. And—

There's so much confusion tangled up in his chest already, the knowledge of thirty thousand of Sinker and Wolffe’s brothers dead because of Grievous, who Mother Talzin is actively helping. The knowledge that Mother Talzin sent him out be killed as soon as Maul and Savage were distracted. The kindness he’s been shown, even as a prisoner, and the way Wolffe pulled Payback behind him, defended him, was so terrified of Feral during their fight but wouldn’t let him hurt any of the clones or his general regardless. It’s—different. It’s too much to think about, but Feral can't _stop_ thinking about it.

Maybe meditation really will help. If Feral’s mind is clear and focused, finding a path should be easier, right?

“Please,” he says quietly, and Plo squeezes his hands gently, as if in reassurance, or maybe thanks.

“Good,” he says, pleased. “Come, change the way you're sitting just a little, to make it easier starting out. Feet beneath you, and tilt your hips forward so you sit up straight. If you sit forward, with your feet propping you up, your legs won't go numb. That’s always such a frustrating thing, isn't it?”

A little bemused, Feral shifts, though Plo doesn’t let go of his hands as he resettles himself. “It matters how I sit?” he asks curiously.

Plo chuckles, tapping a claw against the back of his hand. “At first, it most certainly does. When you're learning something new, it’s best to learn the correct way first, and explore variations later, don’t you think?”

“That makes sense.” Feral straightens his spine, wincing faintly at the slight stiffness in his neck, and looks at Plo, waiting.

Plo checks his posture, then reaches up to tap his forehead right below his horns, then moves to copy his position. “Head back a little, my dear. Draw a line from your hips to your head, and make sure it’s straight. Then close your eyes. Draw your senses inward and control your breathing. Once it’s a habit, your body will know to settle as soon as you focus within, and meditation will get easier.”

Obediently, Feral closes his eyes, lets his breathing even out. This, at least, he knows; Maul’s meditation starts the same way. “Now I pick a focus?” he asks.

“No,” Plo says cheerfully, and it’s surprising enough to make Feral open his eyes and blink at him. Plo's eyes crinkle in a smile, and he says, “Mark your breathing, and try to clear your mind of thoughts. It will be quite difficult at first. The simplest way is to categorize each thought that crosses your mind—label them fear, or worry, or anxiety, or love, whatever fits. Once you’ve named them, set them aside, and return to focusing on your breathing. That’s all you need to do.”

Feral tries not to let his wash of relief show. That sounds much, much simpler than Maul’s way, building his rage to a laser-focused point in his soul. A clear mind sounds…better. Better than a focused one, even, and he nods quickly, then closes his eyes again. Breathes in, long and slow, and feels the resonance of Plo doing the same, the rush as he breathes out again. Through the press of their hands, Feral can sense the way he relaxes into the meditation immediately, mind going soft and calm, like still water, and—

It’s peaceful. It’s tempting, because Feral wants the same. He breathes in, tries to banish his thoughts, and gets a few moments of blankness before a flicker of thought about Savage surfaces.

Feral almost twitches away from Plo, not wanting him to see. But Plo stays calm, serene, and Feral breathes in, assesses the thought. Worry. Traced with fear, but—mostly worry. He always worries about Savage when he’s out of Feral’s sight. After what happened when Ventress took him away—

Anger, Feral thinks, and lets that thought slide away as well. Focuses on nothing, on the flow of breath, the feeling of Plo's mind so still and peaceful against his, and just…eases.

There's no rage, no hate, no fear. Just quiet, and Feral’s wanted nothing else since Ventress first stepped into their village.

Wolffe doesn’t have any idea what the hell Plo thinks he’s doing, but it seems to be working.

“There we are,” Plo says kindly, not letting go of the Sith's hands as the Sith opens his eyes, blinking like Plo just woke him from a deep sleep. There's a slant to his expression that Wolffe can't read, but it makes Plo's eyes crinkle, and he reaches out, resting a hand on top of the Zabrak’s small, sharp horns. “A much better feeling now, isn't it?”

The Sith stares at him for a moment, then ducks his head. He raises his hands, scrubbing them over his face, and takes a breath.

“Yes,” he says, and it’s small, a tiny admission, but his tone is—off. Not dangerously so, not in a way that makes Wolffe want to tense. Just—strange. “I—is that what it’s supposed to feel like? With a clear mind?”

“Yes,” Plo says, gentle. “It makes control much easier, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t _itch_ ,” the Sith says, sounding bewildered by this. “Like—insects biting me. it usually—”

Wolffe knows his general well enough to read the satisfaction in the slant of his expression, and Plo chuckles, reaching out to stroke the Sith’s horns lightly. It makes the Sith twitch, but a moment later he leans into it like he can't help himself, and that just makes Plo's smugness grow to dangerous proportions. Wolffe eyes his general, then the Sith, and contains the urge to sigh through his nose. This is definitely going to be a problem.

“Very good,” Plo says warmly, and unfolds himself, rising to his feet. He offers the Sith his hands, and the Sith hesitates for a moment but takes them, letting Plo pull him to his feet. In just his dark tunics and dark breeches, barefoot and without his hood and scarf, he looks smaller than he did on the battlefield, less mysterious and less imposing, but Wolffe can see the curve of muscle in his arms and shoulders, obvious against the leanness of the rest of his body.

It’s no wonder Payback and Sinker have both taken to him. He looks like he needs several extra meals a day for the foreseeable future, and both of them are suckers.

“Thank you, Master Koon,” the Zabrak says quietly, and earnestness isn't something Wolffe ever would have expected from a Sith, but this one at least gives a passable imitation as he looks up at Plo. The respect of Plo's title feels almost jarring; it’s not Maul’s screech of _Kenobi_ across hangars and battlefields, or Savage’s roar of his opponent’s name. This one seems to mean it, and there’s no hesitation in the way he meet’s Plo's gaze.

Plo, of course, just chuckles, stepping back. “I’m glad I could help, my friend. Being able to clear one’s mind is very helpful, isn't it?”

The slant of the Sith's smile is a little rueful. “I'm…not good with the Force,” he says. “Being calm helps me reach it.”

That, Wolffe thinks suspiciously, was a critical hit; Plo is _eminently pleased_ now, rather than just smug. “It does,” he agrees serenely, like he’s not radiating glee all over. Wolffe doesn’t need to be a Jedi to feel _that_. If the Sith notices, though, Wolffe can't tell, so at least there's that. “I meditate in the mornings and the evenings, Feral, and you are welcome to join me if you like. There's a room two levels up with a very nice view.”

The Sith's eyes flicker to Wolffe, who keeps his mouth shut and his expression as bland as possible. If Plo's plotting, Wolffe’s going to do his best to stay close, protect his general, and let things play out. What Payback said about trusting Jedi instinct—there might be some merit in that. More than Wolffe is willing to admit out loud, at least. He likes things he can personally feel and see and know, but—

Well. Jedi are generals for a reason, and it’s not because they want to be.

“I would like that,” the Sith says very carefully, still with a fraction of his attention on Wolffe. It makes Wolffe feel…odd. Ventress always dismisses clones, thinks of them as playthings she can kill by the dozens, or annoyances at the very most, and Maul and Savage don’t give a damn about clones on their way to the Jedi. In light of that, the Sith turning and fighting Wolffe in particular was—strange. Out of the ordinary, in the way he grappled and was perfectly willing to fight hand to hand, and with a clone at that. Even most Jedi outside of Quinlan Vos don’t bother with that kind of thing.

“Then I will return in the morning, and we can meditate together,” Plo declares cheerfully, and steps back. He’s smiling, and widely. “Perhaps breakfast as well, if Wolffe will allow it.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, but raises a brow at his general. “You mean you're going to sit there and stare at him while he eats,” he says pointedly. “You can do that in the cell, sir.”

“I think Feral would like the mess,” Plo says, less protests and more musing.

“Sir,” Wolffe says, on the edge of a growl. He knows when Plo is fucking with him, and it’s not amusing. Mostly.

Plo chuckles, raising his hands in surrender. “Very well, no meal in the mess hall. But I'm sure we can think of something to make your breakfast a little more interesting, Feral.”

“I don’t mind rations,” the Sith says, and that sounds earnest too even if it should be complete bullshit. _Everyone_ minds rations. “You don’t need to go out of your way for my sake.”

Because that’s the kind of person he is, Plo doesn’t point out that meditating with the prisoner is going out of his way as well. Wolffe considers it, but decides to keep his mouth shut, because Plo is clearly angling for something here. “There are much more interesting things to eat, regardless of whether or not you mind,” Plo points out kindly, and takes a step forward. When the Sith glances up at him, he raises a hand, pets his horns for a moment, and then gives him a smile.

“Feral,” he says. “I want to thank you. You were very careful not to harm my men, and I appreciate that. When I heard Sinker and his squad were facing you alone, I feared the worst. Thank you for not proving me correct.”

The Sith blanches, twitching back. “I—you shouldn’t!” he says, raising his hands, and Wolffe tenses instantly, one hand going to his blaster. Golden eyes flicker to Wolffe, and the Sith winces, then takes a quick step back to put room between himself and Plo. He’s giving Wolffe a clear shot, and Wolffe hates that he can't tell whether it’s deliberate.

Slowly, deliberately, the Sith takes another step back, then lowers his hands. “You shouldn’t,” he says, more quietly. “Maul and Savage are—we’re on the same side. I haven’t—I didn’t save them, I just. Didn’t kill them.”

That’s…not what Wolffe was expecting him to say. Not in that tone, at the very least. Like it’s a personal failing, that he did that. And not for _Sith_ reasons, but—reasons that matter more to Wolffe’s brothers than the CIS.

There's a long, long moment of silence as Plo considers this, considers the Sith. His expression is sliding towards something serious, something grave, and he takes a step, then another. Closes the distance between himself and the Sith, and comes to a halt in front of him, head cocked.

“No,” he agrees after a pause. “They haven’t been saved. Only the end of this war will truly save them. But that you didn’t cause them harm, even in a situation where harming them would have benefited you, is to your credit.” Plo stops again, silent for a stretch of seconds as he watches the Zabrak, and then he says, “I would like to ask you a question, Feral. You may think about it for as long as you like, and I would hardly demand an answer from you. But I find myself curious to know.”

The Sith swallows, curling his arms around himself. The mark on his throat almost glows in the low light of the brig. “What is it?” he asks unsteadily.

Plo hums, light, easy, but nothing about the look on his face is easy right now. Wolffe can feel it prickle, even though the weight of Plo's attention is focused elsewhere. “Tell me, Feral,” he says quietly, calmly. “Why are you fighting for the Separatists?”

There's a pause. Plo takes a step back, like he’s preparing to turn and leave the cell, but before he can get any further, the Sith takes a breath.

“I don’t need to think about that,” he says, equally quiet. “I already know. I've always known.” He lifts his head, looks at Plo, and the expression on his face is a little regretful, but also set, unwavering. “I'm fighting for my brothers, because someone needs to help them. And even if I'm not strong, even if I can't fight well—someone needs to. But no one will, so it has to be me. It’s—it’s my duty as their brother, to protect them, even if I'm bad at it.”

Plo's breath is soft, even through the rebreather. “Ah,” he says gently. “I had thought it was something like that. It is an admirable thing, Feral, but there are many admirable things that can be done for the wrong reason.”

“I know,” the Sith says, almost soundless. “But I can't _stop_.”

“You can,” Plo corrects gently. “If you find something that matters more than your protection of your brothers, you will. But you haven’t found it yet.” When the Sith opens his mouth, Plo chuckles, raising a hand. “That hardly means you _will_ , my dear. But all beings change, and their goals and dreams change with them. What they value most, what they cannot bear to let die—that can change as well. What is it you value most, Feral?”

The Sith doesn’t seem to have an answer for that. He looks down, twisting his fingers into dark cloth, and says nothing.

Plo doesn’t push, doesn’t press. He just clasps the Sith's shoulder for a moment, grip gentle, and then asks, “May I replace your binders?”

Wolffe doesn’t roll his eyes. He _doesn’t_. Refraining from doing so may or may not strain something important, though.

Even the Sith gives Plo the look that question deserves, but to his credit he turns around, presenting his crossed wrists without complaint, and Plo summons the binders from the floor, snapping the cuffs over his wrists and then patting his shoulder.

“You're cold,” he says gently. “When the next shift arrives, I’ll have them bring you a blanket.”

“Thank you,” the Sith says, quiet, and retreats a few steps back to the cot. He pulls himself up onto it, crossing his legs beneath himself, and leans back, closing his eyes. It’s a dismissal, or maybe the closest he can get to hiding without anywhere else to go, and Wolffe studies him narrowly for a long moment before he steps aside to get the door. Sinker is gone, back to his shift, but Ringer and Tuck are there, waiting. Wolffe lets Plo out, then holds the door for Ringer to enter the cell.

“Eyes open,” he says, but—

Maybe it’s harder to mean it this time than it was even an hour ago.

“Yes, sir,” Ringer agrees, and takes up his position by the door, blaster in hand. Tuck covers the door, and he nods to Wolffe when Wolffe escorts the general through, but doesn’t take his eyes off the Sith.

At least someone’s wary, Wolffe thinks, but it’s resigned more than anything.

He waits up three decks, through a long lift ride, and down a pair of long, sweeping, busy corridors to say anything. Plo seems thoughtful, distracted, and he walks with his hands clasped behind him, no clear destination in mind. Wolffe shadows him, keeping his steps light, his eyes ahead of them and trained for any threats, even if he knows there aren’t any. The only threat is back in the brig, and—

Well. It’s been an interesting time, in the way of certain curses. Wolffe’s not too impressed.

The uppermost deck of the ship is mostly systems and backups, weapon stations and storage. It’s largely empty at the end of the day shift, and when the lift opens on it Plo's steps out echo oddly. Quietly, carefully, Wolffe follows, keeping his own steps light, and eyes Plo in the half-shadows.

“General?” he finally says, quiet.

There's a pause, and then Plo turns to look at him, smiling. He’s always smiling. It’s more of a comfort than Wolffe could ever put into words. “Ah,” he says. “Forgive me, Wolffe, I was rather lost in my own head.”

“I noticed,” Wolffe says, not judgment, just statement. He studies Plo for a moment, then glances at the transparisteel ahead of them, looking out on the streaked stars of hyperspace. When Plo comes to a halt several feet from it, Wolffe does too, and says, “You're poking at something.”

“I suppose I am,” Plo says, and reaches out, clicking his claws against the window. “I told you, I believe, that Feral felt no rage or pain when we fought.”

“You did.” Wolffe rests a hand on his blaster, solely for the familiarity of the motion, and watches his general. “Sir?”

“I regret, very frequently, that the Jedi Order does not go to Dathomir,” Plo says. “The rule of the witches there is a fascinating thing, but the enslavement of the male portions of the population is…well. Males are not Force-sensitive, even though every female born is.”

Wolffe frowns, because that doesn’t make any sense. Maul and Savage are both plenty Force-sensitive. “What? But—”

Plo chuckles, but there's nothing of humor in it. “That’s what the witches have always told the Council. We aren’t welcome, as Jedi, because all of the women are Force-sensitive and trained accordingly, and none of the men are to begin with and need not be bothered with.”

“They're lying,” Wolffe translates flatly.

“I doubt they test males for Force sensitivity,” Plo says, “so I doubt it is an outright lie. But it is certainly not the truth. Feral, it seems, is one of the lucky ones, in that he received training at all. But the Nightsisters follow the Dark Side, and there is no way they would train him to be anything but a Sith warrior.”

“Which is why you're teaching him Jedi techniques.” Wolffe raises a brow when Plo glances at him, and says, “I'm not stupid, sir.”

Plo chuckles warmly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You most certainly aren’t,” he agrees. “Yes, I'm teaching Feral Jedi techniques. If he has trouble with Dark Side techniques, if rage and fear and pain make him uncomfortable…” He spreads his claws, smiling behind his mask. “Perhaps life as a Jedi, cultivating peace and seeking harmony, would suit him better.”

Wolffe stares at him for a long, long moment, and can't even bring himself to feel anything but resigned. He probably should have expected this from the first moment the Sith spoke to him so politely in the tower.

“The Council is going to dangle you from the chambers by your _ankles_ ,” he warns, and is entirely certain he’s not exaggerating in the least.

Plo outright laughs at that, like it’s a joke. “Perhaps,” he says cheerfully. “But there are several loopholes that I can use, and Mace will admire the audacity.”

“General Windu is going to be the one pushing you out the window,” is Wolffe’s opinion, but he’s already fully aware that there's not going to be any deterring Plo if he’s decided on this course of action. With a sigh, he folds his arms over his chest, and says, “With all due respect, sir, this is a bad idea.”

Plo just hums, eyes crinkling. “I think it’s a splendid idea,” he says. “Feral seems quite sweet, doesn’t he?”

Wolffe gives him a deeply, _wholly_ unimpressed look, and pretends that it doesn’t ease something in his chest to hear his general giggle at him like a youngling.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s early morning when Wolffe returns, and he’s alone this time.

In the middle of what few stretches he can do with his hands bound behind him, Feral hears the hiss of the door and glances up, a little startled given the hour. It’s even more surprising to see Wolffe standing there in his armor, frowning, but not radiating any sort of hostility.

“Jag,” he says as he enters. “Payback put you up to this, didn’t he?”

The guard in Feral’s cell grins. “Of course not, sir. He would _never_.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, so clearly Payback would, but he doesn’t protest. Just nods to Warthog, sprawled in the chair by the door, and enters with quick steps. “You’ve got a two-hour break starting now, but I expect you to be here when I bring the prisoner back.”

“Commander?” Warthog asks, startled, but rises to his feet.

“Meditation with the general,” Wolffe says curtly, and meets Feral’s eyes through the bars. “I’m taking him up to the observation deck.”

A flicker of unease curls in Feral’s chest, but he gets his feet under himself and rises carefully, then takes a deliberate step back as Wolffe keys the cell open. Jag waits for him to enter, then ducks out, sliding back to stand with Warthog as Wolffe jerks his head.

“Your hands stay cuffed,” he says curtly. “But the general wants them in front of you.”

Oh. Feral pauses, looking at Wolffe’s face, and he can remember his fear all too clearly in the communications tower, the rage and fear and grim, dogged determination not to let Feral hurt any of his brothers even if it cost him his life. And—

He swallows, takes a step back. It’s not that he doesn’t want his hands a little freer, but Wolffe already hates him. Feral would rather not feed his fear as well.

“That’s all right,” Feral says quietly. “If the general gets upset you can tell him I insisted on leaving them this way.”

Wolffe stops short, keys in hand. His gaze flickers from Feral’s face to his bound hands, and his frown deepens. He hesitates, gauntlet going tight around the keys, and then takes a breath.

“All right,” he says shortly. “If you insist. Come.”

Feral doesn’t wince, but he can feel the roil of dark emotion rising, and it makes him want to jerk back and stuff himself into a corner. Wolffe is _angry_ , low-level and constant, and it prickles unpleasantly across Feral’s skin the same way Savage’s anger does. But­—

Feral thinks of thirty thousand brothers dead because of the Separatists and raises his chin. Justified anger, and that doesn’t make it _easier_ to bear, but—more understandable. He steps up beside Wolffe, lets Wolffe close a gauntlet around his arm, and doesn’t protest when he’s shoved forward, marched past Jag and Warthog and out of the brig.

“Does Master Koon always get up this early?” he asks quietly, not resisting as Wolffe steers him toward the lift at the end of the corridor.

“Always,” Wolffe says, with just a trace of resignation to it that feels like fondness. “If he’s not meditating, he’s making himself a nuisance on the bridge.” Then, like he’s been caught saying something he shouldn’t, Wolffe snaps his mouth shut, tensing.

Feral just laughs a little, tipping his head. “You love him,” he says, and smiles at Wolffe. He can feel that, beneath the wariness. One thread, gilt in the darkness, that’s nothing but love and devotion. Savage feels something similar towards Maul. It’s—not a bad thing. “I didn’t think soldiers would love their general.”

For a long moment, Wolffe doesn’t answer, to the point that Feral almost thinks he isn't going to. And then, soft, rough, Wolffe takes a breath and looks away, and says sharply, “The clones were made for the Jedi. The Jedi are _ours_. Maybe normal soldiers don’t, but—the Jedi are the only ones who give a damn about us. Of course we care about them.”

“Oh,” Feral says quietly, and has to look away. Thinks of the Nightbrother village, and the way Ventress came in and just…killed them. Like they were nothing. Like the fact that they’d been dragged into her games meant they were asking for death, just because they weren’t strong enough.

The Nightsisters don’t care about the Nightbrothers. That’s always been obvious. The Nightbrothers farm and hunt and provide what the Nightsisters need, and in return they live on the edge of too little, or are killed by the dozens when a Sister needs a soldier or a toy. It makes Feral’s stomach turn, and he wants to wrap his arms around himself, or lean away from Wolffe, but he doesn’t.

Wishes, a little, that the Nightbrothers had someone like Plo to care for them, but that will never happen.

“What, the Nightsisters don’t bother earning their troops’ loyalty?” Wolffe asks, sharp, and it’s meant to be abrasive, a challenge. “Can't relate?”

Feral swallows, twisting his hands together in the cuffs. “No,” he says, and looks up, holding Wolffe’s narrowed stare. “I can't. When Ventress came into our village, she killed almost a dozen of us before she picked her champion, and—it was expected. The Nightsisters are our generals, mostly, and that’s how it always is.”

Wolffe is very, very still, like he’s hardly even breathing, and his gaze is fixed on Feral, a weight to it. Like fighting through a hurricane and finally reaching the eye of the storm, every emotion in him has gone quiet, and there’s nothing but knife-sharp attention.

“Ventress,” he repeats. “Asajj Ventress.”

It’s not a question, but Feral still nods, and he has to look away, look down. All he can see is Savage’s broad back in front of him. All he can hear is Savage giving himself up to Ventress in order to save Feral’s life.

If Feral had been killed earlier, if he hadn’t leaned on Savage so heavily, if he’d been willing to make the same sacrifice to keep Savage safe—

But he didn’t, hadn’t even thought about how he dragged Savage down, and Ventress had forced Savage’s hand. Ventress had taken him away, and twisted him, and turned him into something he wasn’t, and now the brother Feral knows is _gone_. He’s a Sith warrior now, a Sith apprentice serving Maul, and he’s happy, or something close to it.

He’s just…not the Savage that Feral remembers. And it’s fine. It is. At least he’s alive. But—

It just hurts, that’s all. All the time, in a deep, sharp way that echoes through Feral’s chest. But that’s manageable. It’s survivable. He’s alive, and as long as Savage exists in some form Feral will always be glad.

“Ventress is Mother Talzin’s favorite,” Feral says, and he’s not an angry person. He doesn’t get angry easily, _ever_ , but this memory is enough to make him. The darkness of the temple, and Ventress, and Savage rising from the stone slab. The way he’d stared at Feral, almost recognizing him—

And then Ventress had slapped him, after everything she’d already done to him. She’d slapped him, hissed at him, and Savage had lost even that little bit of awareness in his eyes. He’d grabbed Feral by the throat, and Feral can still feel the grip of his hand there, tight around his neck and getting tighter.

Even more terrifying, though, was the pleasure that rose in Ventress, the _glee_ , as Savage gave in to the Nightsister magics completely and snapped Feral’s neck.

Feral swallows hard, and suddenly the scarf around his throat is too much, too tight. He tries to breathe through the rising panic, but it’s strangling, and he almost wants to laugh at the terrible joke but he _can't_.

“Can—can you help me?” he asks, and knows his voice cracks but can't even care. “Please, I just—”

There's a pause, and then a short breath. “What?” Wolffe asks curtly.

“The scarf,” Feral blurts. “It’s too tight, can you please—I can't—”

Another moment of hesitation, and Feral can't breathe, can't stand it, can't _take it_ —

A gauntlet brushes his jaw, and Wolffe steps into his space, smooth plastoid and grey markings all Feral can see. One hand goes tight around Feral’s shoulder, and Feral flinches automatically, wants to fling himself back into the wall of the lift, but a moment later there's a tug, and cloth falls loose. Wolffe pulls it off, doesn’t let it so much as skim Feral’s throat as it falls away, and then steps back, looping the black cloth around his hand.

“Eyes up,” he says, and it’s an order, unyielding even if it’s not harsh. “Look at me.”

Feral doesn’t want to. He wants to cover his head and duck away and not think about Ventress or Savage’s hand around his throat ever again. That voice is hard to disobey, though, and he swallows hard, lifts his head to look at Wolffe, and finds him looking back, still frowning, gaze focused and unwavering. The cybernetic eye and scar that crosses it are both stark in the bright light, but—comforting, almost. Unlike anything on Dathomir, and entirely unlike any of the Nightsisters who tortured Savage and twisted him into something unrecognizable.

“Sorry,” Feral manages, and digs his fingernails into his wrists, trying to control himself. He feels like he can breathe now, but it’s still not enough. It will never be enough. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t,” Wolffe says shortly, and looks away, hand fisting around the scarf. “Mother Talzin is the head of the Nightsisters?”

Feral can do this. He can focus on answering, rather than the memory of what happened. Quickly, he nods, and takes a step back, bracing his shoulders against the wall of the lift. “She’s the leader,” he says. “Of the Nightbrothers, too. Brother Viscus answers to her.” He hesitates, but— “My. My brothers were taken. Because of her. And because of Ventress.”

“Taken,” Wolffe repeats, and he takes a step forward. If should feel like crowding, like he’s pinning Feral into the corner, but with the markings, with the breadth of his body, it almost feels like another Zabrak is standing in front of Feral, maybe a Nightbrother, guarding him. Guarding him like Savage did.

Feral breathes, and breathes, and tells himself that he’s not going to cry.

“To serve the Nightsisters’ purpose,” Feral manages, and it’s technically true. It’s entirely _too_ true. Savage and Maul were both taken and twisted, one to serve Sidious and the other to serve Ventress, and neither of them escaped unscathed, even if they found each other in the aftermath, managed to become something more than puppets.

Wolffe is silent for a long moment, and the lift is still, stopped, but he makes no move to open the doors. “You were taken, too,” he says finally, and Feral sinks his teeth into the inside of his lip, bites down.

“I'm not—good at things,” he says, and the truth of it aches. He’s not a good Sith. He’s not a good fighter. Maul gets so _angry_ when he trains Feral, and Savage is more patient but also more disappointed. It _aches_. “I wasn’t taken to be a warrior. I was taken to be a _sacrifice_.”

Wolffe’s breath is low, rough. He rubs a hand over his eyes, then drops his hand. Reaches out, and when Feral doesn’t jerk away he hooks a hand behind his shoulders and pulls him forward, waving the lift doors open and then practically propelling Feral down the hall and to a side door. It opens with a hiss, and Feral stumbles only to have Wolffe catch him, pull him up, and shove him forward, right into a warm body.

“General,” Wolffe says curtly, and then takes three deliberate steps back and turns away.

Feral blinks into the rough brown fabric of Jedi robes, feeling Plo's flicker of surprise, then warm understanding. A four-fingered hand presses against Feral’s back, and Plo chuckles softly.

“Are you all right, Wolffe?” he asks, gently amused, and strokes Feral’s back. “Too much sentiment to endure?”

Wolffe scoffs, but Feral can feel the heat of his embarrassment, the wash of his relief that Plo is here to deal with things. And—

It’s funny. It _is_. Wolffe just marched him down the hall and quite literally threw him at his general rather than deal with Feral when he was upset, and it makes bright mirth bubble up in Feral’s chest. He can't help it; he turns his face into Plo's robes and laughs, hitching and cracking in his throat, but _warm_.

“Stop that,” Wolffe says, annoyed. “I didn’t— _General_ —”

Plo chuckles, too, and he strokes Feral’s horns, sets a hand on his shoulder. “You looked as if you were escaping a horde of droidekas, Wolffe,” he points out. “It was at least a little amusing, my friend.”

Wolffe growls, low and aggrieved, and folds his arms over his chest. “You're the one who’s good at dealing with _people_ ,” he says pointedly.

Feral tries vainly to swallow his giggles, finally lifting his head from Plo's chest. “You _threw_ me,” he manages, and Wolffe’s glare is more poisonous than Maul’s could ever hope to be.

“I _pushed_ you,” Wolffe counters sharply, and Feral can't stop the laughter that’s bubbling up. He takes two steps back and sinks to the ground, ducking his head to hide it, but he can't stop the way his shoulders shake, or the wash of mirth he knows Plo can feel and Wolffe can probably see. Half of it is probably relief at the retreat of fear, but all the rest is genuine humor, a bright sort of happiness that’s simple but warm.

With a quiet chuckle, Plo crouches down behind him, and a moment later the cuffs give way. Plo sets them on the closest table, then takes Feral’s hands gently and urges him back to his feet. “Did you walk all the way up here barefoot?” he asks, amused. “Forgive me, I didn’t even think of that, Feral. I’ll have to see about getting your boots returned to you.”

“Now that we emptied all the knives out of them,” Wolffe mutters. “What kind of Sith carries knives?”

“A bad one,” Feral says, but this time it doesn’t hurt to say. Wolffe’s offense is a bright thing, touched with a flicker of amusement deep beneath the surface, and Feral bites his lip to keep from grinning. “Knives are useful.”

Wolffe gives him a dark look. “ _I_ know that. But Force-users don’t have enough sense between them to realize that _they_ can use knives.”

“Generally, there's no need to,” Plo says lightly. “The plasma swords tend to be sufficient in most cases.”

Wolffe’s huff is unimpressed, but he does move a little closer, watching Feral. Wary, still, but—maybe for different reasons than before.

“Are the Nightsisters still holding your brothers hostage?” he asks, and it’s not gentle, but there's a current of steel to it that isn't aimed like a weapon. Or, at least, not aimed at _Feral_.

“Wolffe?” Plo asks, startled.

Wolffe doesn’t answer, just comes to a halt in front of Feral, still close, just like he was in the lift. It’s still a comfort, and—like this, Feral finally realizes why.

All Wolffe is feeling is determination, a seed of something that burns like rough, reluctant sympathy. There's no threat, even if he’s still angry, even if he’s still afraid. He’s not going to hurt, no matter how he feels about Feral personally.

Feral carefully wraps his arms around himself, doesn’t put a hand up to his throat to feel the burning imprint of Savage’s hand that has never quite gone away. “They don’t mind where they are,” he says, and that twinges a little, like those forgotten dreams of leaving Dathomir and escaping to Iridonia. “I can't—I can't leave them, though. I have to protect them. Before, I couldn’t, but I _have_ to try.”

“They're the ones who serve the Confederacy,” Plo says, gentle. “And you fight because they do.”

Feral hesitates. Doesn’t want to remove the blame from himself, because all he can think about is thirty thousand clones dead in a day, in _one blow_ , and how he was sent to help Grievous just a few days ago. But—

“They won't leave,” he says, and meets Wolffe’s gaze, helpless to think of a solution short of abandoning Maul and Savage, and he _can't_ do that. “So I can't leave, either.”

Wolffe takes a breath, closes his eyes. Feral can see his throat work for a moment, can feel the sharp edges of what he wants to say. When he opens his eyes again, though, he meets Feral’s gaze squarely, and says, curt, grim, “At some point you're going to have to realize that you're saying you're fine with everything the Seppies do, because you're going along with it. Even if it’s just for your brothers.”

Feral flinches, looking down. Thirty thousand clones, he thinks, and swallows. More, too. Savage and Maul have killed clones. They’ve killed whole _squads_ without hesitation or mercy. Feral knows that. He’s seen it, and been part of those attacks, and even if he didn’t kill anyone himself, he stood by while Savage and Maul did. And—when does that become the same thing as helping them do it?

Maybe it always has been, and Feral just hasn’t wanted to consider the truth of it.

The alternative, though, if leaving Maul and Savage. It’s _abandoning_ them to fight the war alone, with no true allies and too many enemies, and Feral can't do that. They're his _brothers._ Savage protected him for years. Maul _needs_ them.

Feral is the reason Savage was taken, and he can never make amends for that, but he can do everything in his power to make sure Savage isn't hurt again.

There's a soft breath, a touch on his shoulder. “Come, my dear,” Plo says gently. “Meditation will help clear your mind, and a meal will settle you. There’s time for all of this discussion later.”

Thinking about having to consider this more just makes Feral’s stomach knot, but he nods and lets Plo draw him towards the windows, Wolffe trailing them three steps behind.

If any of the Jedi on the planet are holding a prisoner, Savage can't see any trace of it.

It feels like a weight in his gut, like fear and fury and echoes of the arena, but Savage shoves them down, refuses to acknowledge them as he makes his way back to the ship. Back to _Feral’s_ ship, abandoned in the forest, prepared for a quick takeoff but left silent and still, untouched since its occupant left the first time.

Feral’s lightsaber is gone, too, but his comm is still sitting beside the control panel.

Of course he left it, Savage thinks, and wants to feel annoyance, but all that rises is fear. Of course he left it. He didn’t have backup to contact. He didn’t have anyone who was coming to help him. What use would a comm have been, under those circumstances?

Savage should have made it clearer that Feral wasn’t to leave Dathomir without contacting them. He should have impressed upon Mother Talzin that Feral is _theirs_ , not hers to use as she sees fit. Already he’s had to stop her from handing Feral off to her Nightsisters, or sending him against enemies he would have no hope against. But—

He didn’t stop her well enough, clearly, and now Feral is _gone_.

Grimly furious, Savage slams up the ramp of the ship and into the interior, to find Maul sprawled out in the pilot’s seat, frowning down at Feral’s comm. There’s a display of numbers and codes running across the screen, and Savage leans over the back of the chair to look more closely, but can't see what has Maul’s attention.

“Ti is leaving,” he says instead. “Neither she nor her three commanders were talking about a prisoner, and I didn’t see any trace of Feral. Secura is expanding her camp to deal with stragglers, but there's no prisoner there, either.”

Maul’s frown deepens, and he lifts his head. “You're sure Ti doesn’t have him?” he asks coolly.

Savage shrugs. “Not that I could see,” he says. “But the 104th was here protecting the comm tower, and they left two days ago.”

“Plo Koon,” Maul says in disgust, and taps the comm, activating the holo display. The codes spin up, out, writing themselves in the air in pale blue, and Maul sinks back in the chair, considering them with a scowl.

“This wasn’t Feral’s first stop,” he says. “Talzin sent him elsewhere as well, judging by the dates she commed him. I dislike her taking such initiative without consulting us.”

Rage is like a fist in Savage’s chest, and he tightens his grip around the back of the chair until it creaks. “We should have taken him with us,” he says, self-directed anger more than anything. Maul had refused, the first time Savage asked, and then Savage hadn’t bothered to ask again. Had thought, falsely, that Feral would be safer on Dathomir, picking through connections and rumors, than he would be in a war zone. He’d forgotten to factor in Mother Talzin’s ambitions, clearly. Ventress might no longer be a player in this fight, but that just gives Talzin leeway to offer Dooku her services freely.

“He would have been of little use,” Maul says dismissively, but he’s still staring at the comm, expression something dark. “Koon's troops are gone, I assume?”

“Yes,” Savage says. “As soon as one of our allies knows where they’re headed, we’ll be told.”

“Good.” Maul smiles, thin, and snaps the comm off. “I find myself _very_ interested in what Talzin has had our little brother doing behind our backs this whole time. Perhaps when we find him, he can be convinced to tell us.”

“He will,” Savage says, and is entirely certain of it. Feral is still the same, still loyal, still kind, still entirely willing to laugh at himself, to smile in the darkest moments. The fact that Savage can't even look at him without remembering the snap of his neck breaking beneath his hand hasn’t changed who Feral is, and that’s—good. It’s good. Savage never wanted Feral to become a Sith, never wanted him to have to serve the Nightsisters so closely, but if he has to, Savage is glad that doing so hasn’t changed him.

The fact that Feral is terrified of him, can't even stand to be near him, is acceptable in the face of his continued existence.

“Perhaps,” Maul says, because he doesn’t _know_ Feral. He trains him, but he gravitates towards Savage, and it settles something in Savage’s chest that he still has at least one brother who loves him, but it aches. Maul could do with Feral’s kindness, but he’s set himself as Feral’s teacher instead. And—it’s understandable. It’s Maul’s version of care, because he wants Feral to be strong, wants him to survive even if it’s couched in terms of usefulness and service and ability. But—

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, Savage can't help but think of what he and Feral used to talk about as children. All the ridiculous, unworkable plans to resurrect a downed ship lost in the marshes and fly it to Iridonia, so they could leave peacefully there.

None of the plans ever would have come to anything, even if Ventress had never come, but Savage thinks of the basket he kept tucked under his bed, always packed and ready to take when they ran for freedom. It’s likely still there in their little house in the village. Savage hadn’t had time to check before Ventress took him to the temple, and Feral was likely dragged away shortly afterwards, to be set before Savage like a sacrifice in the grip of Ventress’s control over him. He wouldn’t have had time to retrieve it, either, even if he’d known it was there.

“When the 104th lands, we will face them,” Maul says, and drops the comm on the console with a clatter. “If they're holding Feral, we’ll retrieve him, and let them learn a very important lesson about taking what doesn’t belong to them.”

Savage takes a breath, then inclines his head. It will be as simple as that. Plo Koon is just one Jedi, even if he’s one who sits on the Council. His troops are just clones, no matter their skill. Maul and Savage are Zabraks, they're Nightbrothers, and they're Sith. No Jedi will ever stand a chance against them.

No Jedi will ever be enough to take Feral from them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning for this chapter** : There's reference made to the canon treatment of the Nightbrothers/males on Dathomir with regards to sex with the witches who hold power over them. It's implied, but heavily, and if that's going to make you uncomfortable please be aware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a lighter note, **this fic will now have weekly updates!** Starting now, updates will be every Saturday.

“Captured?” Mother Talzin asks, and the cloying concern in her tone grates at Savage’s nerves. He doesn’t let himself respond, doesn’t let himself speak, just looms at Maul’s shoulder and hates the fact that such a thing will only please her.

He was created to be a pawn, a warrior. The fact that it’s Maul using him as one and not Ventress matters little to Talzin in the long run.

“So it seems,” Maul says, and he, at least, seems unmoved by Mother Talzin’s attention, sprawled in his chair and watching her holo closely over steepled fingers.

Talzin clicks her tongue. “The Auril sector should not have been such a threat,” she says. “The Jedi there were occupied with Grievous’s forces, and the communications tower was only guarded by clone troopers. How was that useless boy captured?”

“Plo Koon was present for the attack, but retreated shortly after Ti’s victory over Grievous” Maul says, and his stare still hasn’t wavered. “They are currently on route to the Ferra sector, from what we have gathered.”

“Perhaps he seeks to investigate operations on Xorrn,” Mother Talzin suggests, thoughtful. “That would require a Jedi of Plo Koon's reputation, given the planet’s danger. The Geonosian mines could be at risk.”

“The Geonosians and their mines are of no interest or consequence to me,” Maul says coolly. “Feral’s capture impacts my plans. I will retrieve him.”

There's a pause, deliberate, precise. Mother Talzin smiles thinly, and says, “There is a chance Plo Koon is heading another attempt at Hypori.”

Maul goes still, still as death, to the point that Savage can't even hear him breathing. For an endless moment that has tension drawing tight along Savage’s spine, he says nothing, just stares at Mother Talzin.

“Hypori is not a planet the Jedi can take,” he finally says. “I assume even the Jedi know that.”

“A stray thought, nothing more.” Talzin waves a hand, dismissing it, but the curve of her smile says she won a point. “Be wary, my son. Koon may have allies, where he is going. You are strong, but you may not have the element of surprise after Feral’s failure.”

Maul tilts his head, watching her without blinking. “Feral should not have been sent into a situation like that half-trained and without backup. You endangered my plans in your attempt to support Grievous, Talzin.”

“I had thought Feral more than capable,” Mother Talzin counters, and the surprise in her voice is sugary as well, enough to put Savage’s hackles up. “After all, you have been training him for so long, my son.”

Savage grits his teeth, but still doesn’t allow himself to say anything. Feral shouldn’t be fighting. He especially shouldn’t be fighting as a Sith warrior when he’s far more suited to building, to creation. Good with machines, good with his hands, decent with a weapon, but—

He’s not meant to be a Sith. Savage has never met anyone less willing to hate than Feral.

“Feral’s progress should not matter to you,” Maul says icily. “He is my warrior and I will train him as I see fit.”

“If you are sure you still have use for him.” Talzin demurs. Her gaze flickers to Savage, then slides back to Maul, and she smiles. “Should you decide he is not worth the effort, however, there are several uses he could still be put to in the temple.”

Savage doesn’t lunge for the holo. He doesn’t sweep it off the table and crush it under his boot, or snarl at her with all the panic that’s beating a tattoo in his chest, or draw his lightsaber and hack the terminal apart. The urge to do so is almost overwhelming, however, and he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood to hold himself back.

He knows precisely what Mother Talzin is referring to. Maul taking Savage on as an apprentice spared _him_ that fate, but the only thing that’s spared Feral being dragged away by one of the Nightsisters and put to a male’s other use so far is his training. Maul won't allow it to happen, either, but—

But nausea twists through Savage’s stomach, and he drops his gaze to the floor. Feral is smaller, for his age. He’s quick but not given to heavy muscle, is lean and soft-spoken and doesn’t stand out. Savage had thought, once, that he’d be able to escape such things entirely, but Savage wasn’t able to save him. He fell right into Ventress’s trap, broke Feral’s _neck_. And even now, with Feral healed and alive despite all the odds, Savage is still putting him in danger.

Survivable danger, this time, but—Savage knows Feral. Being used by a Nightsister to father a child will horrify him, _hurt_ him. Savage can't allow that to happen.

“Brother,” he says, and it’s rough, almost harsh with all of his throttled fury.

He doesn’t need to say more. Maul’s gaze flickers to him, then slides away, and he makes a low sound of amusement that just barely hides the anger underneath.

“Feral is my student, and I intend to retrieve him immediately,” he says, meeting Talzin’s eyes. “Despite your talents, you are not a Sith. Leave me to my training of him or I shall be…most displeased.”

There's a careful pause before Talzin inclines her head. “Of course, my son,” she says. “I would not think to interfere.”

It’s a lie. Savage knows it is. If Mother Talzin thinks it’s in her best interests, she’ll interfere immediately and without a second thought. Sidious has her loyalty, but she’s a Nightsister. That will always be her highest loyalty.

“As it should be,” Maul says coolly, and closes the transmission with a flick of his fingers.

It feels like Savage can finally draw a breath with her presence gone. He grips the back of Maul’s chair, closing his eyes for a long moment, and tries to keep his bubbling fear under control. Feral should be with them. It doesn’t matter that Savage isn't _safe_ to be around him. Maul can control him, if he loses himself again. All that matters is that Feral will be in far more danger if he’s elsewhere, out of their reach, and so that can't be allowed.

And then, soft, Maul says, “She is scared.”

Savage blinks, glancing down at Maul in surprise. “She is?” he asks, frowning, and Maul makes a lazy sound of affirmation.

“Quite scared,” he says, and his stare is a predator’s, still fixed on the place where Talzin’s holo was. “The news of Feral’s capture alarmed her. How…interesting.”

Not out of motherly concern, Savage is sure. He grimaces, tugging on his broken horn, and asks, “What does she have to be concerned about? Feral doesn’t know any of her plans. Or ours. And if she sent him against two Jedi—”

“Yes,” Maul agrees, cool. “It is quite the reaction to have.” Another pause, and then he says, “She was entirely certain he was taken in the Auril sector.”

The comm codes, Savage thinks. Feral was absent a week and a half longer than it would have taken for him to reach the Auril sector, and he didn’t contact Talzin at all after about three days in. “You mean she knew he finished his other mission safely,” he says, trying to pick out the trail of Maul’s thoughts.

“Yes.” Maul taps his fingers against the tabletop, then rises. “She must have contacted him in some other way to send him to Auril.”

Savage frowns, can't fight the threads of concern that are winding tighter in his chest. “Why bother?” he asks. “To leave no record?”

“I believe,” Maul says, stepping past Savage, “that his mission to Auril was already meant to leave no record.”

Savage’s breath tangles in his throat, and for a moment he can't breathe, can't speak, can't even move. The memory of the abandoned ship on the planet is still close, and he thinks of Feral leaving it, of Feral _not intending to come back_ , but obeying just because he thought he didn’t have another option, didn’t think Maul or Savage would help him—

With a loud _crack_ , the chair splits under his grip, and Savage jerks his hand away, startled by his own strength. Still, _still_ unused to this thing he is now, twisted into something unfamiliar by the Nightsisters, by Ventress, by _Talzin_.

There's a long moment of silence, the weight of Maul’s gaze on him. Then, brusque, Maul turns away, and says, “Come, brother. We have plans to make.”

Savage follows him, fingers stinging, and tries to resist the urge to shove his hand behind his back. Hiding the evidence is a child’s reaction, and he refuses to give in to it.

It’s not until Wolffe has seen the Sith back to his cell and Plo off to the bridge that he realizes he still has a length of black cloth wrapped tight around his fist.

Remembering feels like a jolt of electricity. In the middle of the hall, Wolffe comes to a sharp halt, staring down at it. The ends are trailing, neatly hemmed, and there are a few dark, dried spots on the gauzy fabric, but it’s soft. It crushes down to nothing in Wolffe’s fist, and it’s so light he hadn’t even registered the weight of it.

But regardless of how light it is, having it wrapped around his throat nearly drove Feral into a panic attack.

The Sith, Wolffe thinks, and closes his eyes, breathing out hard through his nose. But—it’s hard to think of him that way when all Wolffe can see is his fear, the desperation in his face that tangled with resignation when he spoke about his brothers. Taken by Dark Side users, taken from what sounds like slavery to the Nightsisters, and used. Put to work fighting, fighting for the witches without any say in their own fate, and Wolffe thinks of the last time he encountered Ventress on the battlefield and wants to be sick.

_When Ventress came into our village, she killed almost a dozen of us before she picked her champion, and—it was expected._

There wasn’t hatred in Feral’s voice when he spoke. Just—resignation. _It was expected_. There was nothing out of the ordinary about Ventress coming in and killing a swath of Feral’s friends and fellow Nightbrothers. Nothing to raise eyebrows, nothing to fight against.

Wolffe, at least, has his outrage at Ventress’s cruelty, his hatred for how she carved out his eye as a kriffing _statement_. Feral doesn’t have that.

 _Sith_ , Wolffe thinks, pressing his hand over his good eye. _He’s a Sith. He’s a Separatist_.

But when Wolffe accused him of being complicit in killing clones, he’d looked _gutted_.

Maybe it’s all an act. Maybe it’s all meant to gain sympathy so that when he strikes they're all caught off-guard. Maybe Wolffe is seeing what he wants to see in an enemy who also was hurt by Ventress.

But what if he’s not?

Wolffe takes a breath, balling up the scarf in his fist, and remembers Sinker pulling the cloth away from Feral’s face, revealing how young he was. Remembers that moment in the cell, Feral jerking away from Payback’s hand so that Payback didn’t get hurt by whatever Nightsister magics are tied to the mark on his throat.

Remembers that moment in the tower, Sinker in the doorway and the red lightsaber lit and ready in Feral’s hand, and how Feral let himself be caught rather than use it on a clone.

(Ventress never hesitates. They’re all playthings to her. It’s a _game_ , how many of them she can cut down before she reaches her objective.)

Wolffe doesn’t believe Feral is sincere. He won't. He _can't_. It’s a trap, or it’s a trick, or _something_. Sith are something familiar, after the way this war has gone. They're Ventress and Maul and Savage, cutting their way through the clones with glee, with _enjoyment_.

In the aftermath, there's generally not much left.

Wolffe steps back, bracing his spine against the wall, and forces himself to breathe. Tries not to think of Colt, of the footage Wolffe managed to find long after the Battle of Kamino. Ventress dragging Colt forward, impaling him on her lightsaber.

Ventress _kissing_ him, one cute little peck on the cheek as he died, terrified and in pain, just to make it _worse_.

Wolffe’s breath shakes out, halfway between rage and terror, and he closes his eyes. Pushes away from the wall, shoves across the corridor and into the closest room, just wanting to get away, and feels the blinding wash of white that almost drives him right back out.

Before he can take so much as a step backwards, though, there's a low, sharp sound, a hand around his arm. “Easy, Commander,” a familiar voice says, and Payback pulls him forward, around the biobeds as Wolffe’s eyes try to focus under the medbay lights, and back into the corner where Payback’s desk is set up. Without hesitation, Payback drops to his knees, pulling Wolffe down with him, and herds him back against the wall, shoving in close until they’re tangled together, arms linked, legs curled over Wolffe’s, shoulders braced right up against his.

“Commander?” Payback asks, and his hand finds Wolffe’s wrist, grips tight. “Wolffe. Should I get the general?”

“No,” Wolffe manages, and grabs the front of Payback’s uniform, hauling him in. Wishes, briefly, that it was Sinker or Boost, because they're the last remnants of the original Wolfpack and Wolffe _needs_ to know that they're safe, but—

But Payback is a heavy weight against him. Payback is the one who treated him right after Ventress carved out his eye. He’s the one who got Wolffe slated for a cybernetic replacement, who helped him adjust afterwards. He keeps the men alive after battles, treats the injuries the Sith inflict, mourns for the dead. With a rough sound, Wolffe wraps an arm around Payback’s shoulders and pulls him down against his chest, pressing his face against his greying hair.

There's a pause, and then a quiet huff. Payback doesn’t move except to shift his legs a little, and he settles again quickly, not giving any sign that he’s uncomfortable. “Feeling cuddly, Commander?” he asks, amused, but Wolffe can feel him relax, settling in without complaint.

“Get karked,” Wolffe mutters, but he closes his eyes to the sight of Payback’s salt-and-pepper hair, doesn’t bother to protest when Payback’s thumb settles against his wrist, pressing there to take his pulse.

“Want to tell me what’s got your heart racing?” Payback asks calmly, and it’s not a demand. It’s an easy request, and Wolffe can ignore it if he wants. He almost resents Payback for that, almost wishes he’d ducked into any other room and managed to squirrel himself away somewhere alone, but—

They rebuilt the Wolfpack. These men are all Wolffe’s, all his _vode_ , all _his_. Plo is safe aboard the ship, and they're in hyperspace, and—

Feral is locked in the brig, perfectly polite, so careful with the clones he fought that he gave Ringer two bruises and nothing else.

Not one dead clone after facing a Sith. That’s never happened before.

“Kriffing _Sith_ ,” he spits, and Payback makes a sound of agreement, grip tightening for just a moment before he controls himself again.

“This one hits a little different, though,” he says mildly.

“Does he?” Wolffe challenges, but there's not nearly as much bite to it as he would like.

There's a quiet snort, and Payback tips his head to look up at him with one eye. “Yeah, Commander,” he drawls. “Otherwise you would be in his cell with a blaster right now, not in a corner of the medbay.”

“You're the one who dragged me in here,” Wolffe retorts, but digs his fingers into Payback’s ribs and takes a breath, trying not to acknowledge how correct he is. He let Plo take ­off Feral’s cuffs. He let them meditate together. He went and took a comm in the hall and left them alone, and—

If it was Savage, if it was farking _Ventress_ , he never would have done that. They would never allow themselves to be put in that position, anyway, but even if they _were_ , Wolffe wouldn’t even allow them to breathe near the general without putting a blaster bolt between their eyes.

He definitely wouldn’t have tossed them right at Plo the second they looked like they were about to panic.

“Why can't he just kill clones like all the rest of them,” Wolffe asks harshly, even though he doesn’t even _slightly_ mean it.

“Maybe because he’s not like the rest of the Sith we’ve encountered,” Payback says, and then, “Pull my uniform up any higher and I'm going to have to make a few assumptions about our relationship, Commander.”

Wolffe scoffs, but he loosens his grip on Payback’s side, then the arm around his back. When Payback slides back to his knees, sitting up carefully, Wolffe looks him over, taking in the lines around his eyes, the dark bags under them, and says, “I wouldn’t sleep with someone who’s so high on caffeine they can't even see straight, don’t worry.”

“Half caf by volume,” Payback agrees, unbothered. “Make the troops behave themselves for more than a quarter of an hour at a time and I’ll gladly start napping on the biobeds out of boredom.”

“Cute that you expect _me_ to make your life easy after you’ve spent the last year making mine hard,” Wolffe snaps, pushing upright. He pauses there, though, watching Payback, and—

“Need me to say something?” he asks gruffly.

Payback gives him a crooked smile. “Just the usual accidents and bumps, Commander. We’re just shorthanded right now. I’ll survive.”

Shorthanded because one of their medics was killed in action three weeks ago, and Kamino is locked in negotiations with the Senate about resupplying troops. Until the deal gets hammered out, all the new clones are cooling their heels in the training facilities, waiting to hear whether they're going to be sent out or decommissioned. Wolffe’s been trying not to think about it, because this at least is something he can't do anything about. It’s just Senate bantha shit all over again, and even Plo Koon can't defeat it.

“All right,” he says with bad grace, and rubs a hand over his cybernetic eye with a sigh.

A hand catches his wrist half an instant later, pulling his hand away. “Problems with the eye, Commander?” Payback asks with a frown, already shifting up on his knees to reach for a scanner on his desk. “If it needs recalibration, I can get the doctor here—”

“It’s fine,” Wolffe says. “Just aches, sometimes.”

Payback doesn’t stop frowning, but he sits back regardless, looking Wolffe over. “All right, but come to me if there's anything strange. The Jedi Healers signed off on the Kaminoan prosthetics, but…”

But they both know how Kamino operates. Wolffe snorts in quiet agreement, pulling his hand out of Payback’s grip, and asks, “You talked to the 212th’s medic recently?”

Payback raises a brow. “Shank? Not since our last leave. Should I have?”

Wolffe shakes his head, and the itch beneath his skin is lighter now, lets him _think_. He glances down at the black cloth still wrapped around his fist, then takes a breath and unravels it, shaking out a few of the wrinkles. “No,” he says. “But General Kenobi's faced Maul and Savage more than anyone. If anyone’s heard of more Sith working for the Seps, it will be him.”

“Probably,” Payback agrees. “Don’t you already know what you need to, though?”

With a grimace, Wolffe rises to his feet. Hesitates, and then offers Payback a hand. It was…kind. To put up with Wolffe grabbing him. Wolffe would normally find Sinker or Boost or even Plo, in a moment like that, some tangible reminder of those who _did_ survive, but—

Well. The medbay’s the next best thing.

“There might be more Sith running around that we haven’t accounted for,” he says. “Feral said his brothers were taken to serve the Nightsisters. If the 212th has heard any rumors, or seen them—”

“I’ll ask,” Payback agrees, taking Wolffe’s hand and letting him pull him to his feet. Pauses, looking Wolffe over, and then smirks. “ _Feral_?”

With a growl, Wolffe gets a foot behind his ankle, shoves him in the chest, and topples him right back to the ground. “Get _karked_ , Lieutenant.”

Payback pushes up on his elbows, smirk having not abated in the slightest, and blows a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Happily, sir. Any recommendations? I hear General Kenobi is a good time, and since I'm going to be calling him anyway—”

Wolffe rolls his eyes so hard it _hurts_. “Don’t give yourself too many airs, or I'm throwing you back into combat training with Boost.”

Payback pulls a face. “Sir, yes, sir,” he drawls, and twists to his feet. “Going to take _Feral_ ’s scarf back to him, Commander? He might get cold without it.”

“No,” Wolffe says flatly, and pointedly stuffs it into one of his belt pouches.

He doesn’t mention that Plo already requisitioned more blankets for the cell. _Or_ that he’d been considering seeing what they had as far cold weather gear went. Dathomir is a swamp world, after all, always humid and hot, and the cruisers run cold at the best of times.

Payback snorts, clearly not fooled, but plausible deniability is enough for Wolffe. “Of course, sir. Say hello for me, when you do.”

“Hand to hand training,” Wolffe threatens, and mostly means it. “With _Boost_.”

“Yes, sir, I heard you the first time,” Payback says patiently. “Now go away, I have reports to file.”

Wolffe makes a mental note to sign him put for a refresher course with Boost anyway, but for now he settles for giving Payback a flat look and then removing himself from the mostly-empty medbay.

That itch under his skin is still there, the memory of Colt too close, the memory of _Ventress_ too close. Hatred still sits in his chest like shrapnel, seeded into his blood, and Colt was a _friend_. The fact that Wolffe can't think about him without remembering the horror of his death aches almost more than the fact that he died.

That’s what the Sith do. that’s what Wolffe is used to. That’s what always happens. Sith appear, and clones die, and Wolffe had gotten the comm from Sinker as they approached the tower and _known_ , deep in his soul, that it was the last time he would ever hear Sinker’s voice.

Except it wasn’t, because Feral didn’t kill him. Feral saw him, and stopped, and let himself be captured rather than hurt him.

Wolffe’s not grateful. He’s seen too many battles to be glad for one enemy pulling their punches, or to think it will matter much in the course of the war. But—

But.

Of their own volition, his feet turn towards the brig, even though he knows that if anything changed, someone would have commed him. Even though he _knows_ nothing will have happened in the last hour to prove his suspicions right. Lurking in the corners of the brig waiting for Feral’s eyes to glow and for him to start laughing maniacally is probably beneath his dignity, and there's a tug in his chest that says it will be halfhearted at best right now, but Wolffe doesn’t want to go back to his office. Sitting around trying to do paperwork with his thoughts in a tangle of vague thoughts and fear and doubt won't help anyone, and he has a datapad with him; he might as well relieve one of the guards and work from the brig.

When he reaches the brig, though, and pushes through the door with a nod to the clone on guard outside, it’s dark. Wolffe freezes in the doorway, alarm suddenly beating hard against his ribs. “Ringer,” he snaps, and Ringer jerks around, takes a step, and stops.

“I just checked in,” he says. “Sir, I _just_ got their all-clear—”

And then, in the darkness, there's a click. A helmet light turns on, and Tracer says with enthusiasm, “They really do glow!”

Wolffe closes his eyes and very, very carefully breathes through his nose for a long moment.

“How would we see in the dark if we didn’t have night eyes?” Feral asks, bemused. “Why don’t your eyes glow?”

“We can't see in the dark,” Boost says, and a moment later the lights in the brig go on again. Which means they have a coconspirator in the control room, something Wolffe is _definitely_ looking into as soon as he leaves here. He takes two steps into the brig and folds his arms over his chest, _deeply_ unimpressed with this whole affair, and raises a brow, waiting for Boost and Tracer to notice.

They’re not the ones who see him first, though. That’s Feral, who takes one look at him and immediately ducks his head, pressing a hand over his mouth like he’s hiding his laughter. Not giving it away, though, and Wolffe—

Well. Wolffe won't say he appreciates it. But it’s not something he’s about to object to.

“What?” Boost asks, blinking. “Humans not being able to see in the dark isn't _that_ funny.”

“That’s what we’ve got night-vision settings on our helmets for,” Tracer agrees, bewildered. “Come on, you can't laugh at us just because you’re a Zabrak—”

“I think,” Wolffe says grimly, “he’s laughing because he’s picturing how many cleanup shifts in the mess you two are about to be pulling.”

Boost twitches, and Tracer yelps. They spin, and Wolffe gives them both a dark look and does his best loom. From behind him, Ringer chokes on a snicker, but Wolffe ignores him. “Sergeant, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

Boost winces. “Testing a hypothesis, sir?” he tries. “It’s fine, the lights were only off for a second.”

“Out,” Wolffe tells both of them. “And get ready to spend the rest of the trip scrubbing decks, at _best_.”

Tracer groans, but claps Feral on the shoulder as he steps towards the door of the cell. “You're a little bastard,” he says, without any heat to it. “Next time warn us.”

“The damage was already done,” Feral points out, laughing. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tracer waits for Boost to let him out, then offers Wolffe his best pleading expression. “We were just, uh. Assessing the enemy’s abilities?”

“ _Out_.”

“Yes, sir,” Tracer mutters sheepishly, and slinks out of the room. Boost opens his mouth, probably to protest, but a narrow look from Wolffe has it closing again without a sound, and he follows Tracer.

Ringer is laughing at both of them as he shuts the door, but it’s entirely what they deserve.

“They really didn’t mean any harm,” Feral offers, watching Wolffe sink down into Boost’s chair. He’s seated on the cot against the wall, hands still cuffed behind him, legs crossed, and he looks…steadier. Like the meditation helped. Wolffe’s not one to doubt Plo, usually, but—whatever Plo is plotting looks to be working.

“They’re idiots,” Wolffe says, and eyes him in return for a long moment. Considers sending Ringer to go get something thicker for Feral to wear, but he has extra blankets. He’ll be fine until the shift change, and Wolffe maybe doesn’t want to show that anything’s changed.

He pulls out his datapad, sinks back in the chair, and takes a breath. Determinedly, stubbornly, he turns his gaze to the screen, and says, “If you're waiting for a moment to break out and slaughter us all, do me a favor and make it now, before I have to do all this karking paperwork.”

Feral laughs a little, bracing one foot on the floor of the cell and shifting to get more comfortable. “I don’t know why you think I’d have mercy on you, if I _were_ about to do that,” he says.

“Kriff,” Wolffe mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, but—

Well. He’s not angry. That’s probably a start.


	9. Chapter 9

“Well. I’d been wondering where you’d gotten yourself off to,” Sinker says dryly.

Boost rolls his eyes, shoving his mop back into the bucket of cleaning solution. “To exactly the same place I'm going to be for the rest of the trip, apparently,” he complains, then gives Sinker a sour look. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

Sinker rearranges his face into some semblance of sympathy, though it takes an effort. “Wolffe?” he asks.

“Wolffe,” Boost agrees with a sigh, leaning on the mop. “Know any way to get him to lighten a punishment?”

“Yeah,” Sinker says dryly. “Piss off Payback and get him to punish you, and Wolffe will override it out of spite.”

Boost pulls a face. “Pissing off Payback is about as hard as pissing off the general, unless you happen to be the 212th’s medic. And even if it _wasn’t_ , I'm not dumb enough to get the medic out for my ass.”

“You're not?” Sinker raises a brow at him. “You must have done a pretty good job with Wolffe.”

“Extenuating circumstances!” Boost protests. “Feral told us that Zabrak eyes glow in the dark, and Tracer and I just wanted to see.”

Sinker can imagine how that explanation went over with Wolffe, especially if he caught them in the act. “Yeah? I hope your curiosity keeps you warm while you're scrubbing decks like a shiny.”

“You could always help,” Boost retorts.

Sinker scoffs, because _he_ didn’t piss off the commander, so it’s not his problem. “Feral all right?” he asks instead. Wolffe doesn’t yell, but—his rage is probably more than enough to unsettle someone who’s already twitchy.

“I think so.” Boost frowns a little, and when Sinker gives him a look, he spreads his hands. “Look, Wolffe kicked us out of the brig and finished the rest of our shift. Comet and Mortar relieved him, and they didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. They said Wolffe was doing paperwork, and Feral was sleeping.”

That’s…a lot better than Sinker would have expected. He frowns a little, rocking back on his heels, and considers. Wolffe wouldn’t hurt a prisoner, but—he’s gruff and blunt and a bit of an asshole, and if he’d gotten into an argument with Feral, it _definitely_ wouldn’t have ended that peacefully. And Sinker can't imagine him _not_ getting into an argument, if they were together that long. Wolffe doesn’t exactly have a lot of patience for the Seps, after everything they’ve seen.

It’s not like Sinker blames him. After the _Malevolence_ , after all the extraction and recovery missions they’ve taken, hating the Seps and what they do is easy. But—

Call Sinker a hopeless optimist, but he’s pretty sure Feral isn't the kind of person who would ever be deliberately cruel, or even someone who would allow cruelty to happen under his watch. Whatever is keeping him on the Separatist side of the war, it’s not personal greed or a desire to fight. Plo wouldn’t have taken to him, if it was.

“Warthog mentioned something about Wolffe taking Feral to meditate with the general,” Boost offers after a moment, watching Sinker’s face. “This morning. And he wasn’t exactly _friendly_ when he caught us, but Feral was laughing and he didn’t look like he wanted to claw Wolffe’s face off.”

That’s _definitely_ an improvement. Sinker considers for a long moment, weighing what Feral has told them against what he knows of Wolffe, and then snorts softly. “Maybe the commander’s coming around.”

“Not enough to get me off cleanup duty,” Boost mutters, but with a sigh he slaps the mop down again. Gives Sinker another look, and then says, “Don’t get me wrong, I'm glad he didn’t murder you—”

“Oh, _that’s_ a promising start—”

“—but you're all in for him, and normally you're the first to toss a Sep in the brig and not look back,” Boost finishes, ignoring him.

Sinker pauses, closing his mouth, and considers his answer for a second. Weighs instinct against experience, wants against reality, and takes a breath.

“He remembered my name,” he says, and meets Boost’s eyes. “After the fight, he remembered my name and my armor. I asked the general, and he only used my name _once,_ indirectly. But even when we were enemies, Feral thought it was important enough to remember the name of a clone he’d encountered once at that point, for barely ten seconds.”

“I remember that,” Boost says thoughtfully, still watching him. “He saw you as a person.”

Sinker shrugs. “Ventress never does,” he says bluntly. “Hell, the admirals don’t. That’s Jedi stuff.”

“He’s a Sith,” Boost reminds him.

Sinker just raises a brow at him. “Like you said. Hard to be an assassin if you don’t kill anyone. Besides, either he’s the best actor in the galaxy or he is what he seems, and right now I'm not about to sign him up for a stage in Coruscant’s Theater District.”

With a faint grimace, Boost runs a hand over his hair. “Still a Sep,” he says. “Even if he is all rainbows and sunshine. General’s not going to be enough to save him from the Senate. He’s a captured enemy, and at this point prison’s the best option on the table.”

“Don’t tell the general that,” Sinker says dryly. “He might take it as a challenge.”

Boost snorts, like that isn't _absolutely_ something Plo would do in a heartbeat. Like it’s not something he’s probably already planning to do, even. Sinker has complete faith in their general’s ability to give Wolffe as many grey hairs as anyone alive ever possibly could, and this situation doesn’t seem like it’s going to help the tendency.

“Here’s a challenge,” Boost says, and shoves the cleaning solution closer to Sinker, almost sending it slopping out on his boots. “Help me clean, and I’ll listen to you talk about Feral as much as you want.”

Sinker opens his mouth to tell Boost exactly where he can stuff that suggestion, but before he can get the words out, there's a familiar sharp, “Sergeant!”

“Yes sir,” Sinker says automatically, turning on his heel to find Wolffe in the doorway. If Wolffe _did_ get into a yelling match with Feral—or, knowing him, a growling match—there's no sign of it. He doesn’t look any tenser or grimmer than normal, and the line of his shoulders isn't nearly as stiff as it could be.

Wolffe jerks his head. “Meeting with the general,” he says curtly.

Sinker blinks, trying to remember if he saw that on the schedule, and then curses when he realizes that he did. “Sorry, sir,” he says quickly, and ducks out into the hall after Wolffe as he turns.

“The brass changed the time,” Wolffe says, which is as close to a _you're fine_ as he gets. He casts a narrow look at Boost, who salutes him sardonically with the mop, and then rolls his eyes, clearly deciding not to comment. “You have the reports from Medical?”

“Yes, sir.” At the very least, Sinker managed to grab the pad with those, since he’d been intending to review them again before the meeting. “The admirals finally pick who’s meeting us?”

Wolffe’s mouth tightens faintly. “If they have, they haven’t alerted General Koon, but I heard either the 212th or the 501st.”

Sinker very carefully tucks his amusement away. “It’ll be nice to see Waxer again,” he says mildly. “He made lieutenant, last time we talked.”

“I don’t know what they did to your batch in the growth tanks,” Wolffe says, a little sourly, “but I'm not surprised they haven’t tried it again.”

Sinker rolls his eyes. “Commander Cody appreciates us—”

“Cody doesn’t even know what his blaster’s for.”

“—and if you didn’t have me, Feral would have gotten away.”

Wolffe pauses, frowning, and gives Sinker a look that Sinker meets with a raised brow. “The general would have caught him,” he says.

“Probably eventually,” Sinker agrees. “But I saved you a run through the trees and a few more bouts of landing on your _shebs_.”

Wolffe grimaces at that, but doesn’t protest. “For a Sith, he likes hand to hand too much,” he says, disgusted.

That’s not disgust at Feral, though; Sinker’s confident of that. He knows Wolffe too well. Annoyance at his own performance, probably, though Wolffe fought as well as he always does. Force-users just aren’t fair for normal people.

“At least he didn’t use that lightsaber for more than blocking and cutting through doors,” Sinker says, and—well. He’s going to have plenty of nightmares about that red lightsaber in front of him, if not with Feral on the other side. Maul instead, maybe. Ventress _definitely_.

If it had been one of them, they would have killed Sinker before he could even pull the trigger.

Wolffe doesn’t look at him, but he bumps their shoulders together lightly, then steps away, putting a little more space between them. “If you were faster with your weapon it wouldn’t have been a problem,” he says, and Sinker rolls his eyes and takes it as the worry that it’s intended to convey.

“I heard you and Feral were getting cozy,” he says instead, eyeing Wolffe and the way he goes just a little stiff. “He trusted you enough to go to sleep?”

“He was bored enough,” Wolffe corrects, but honestly that’s all the confirmation Sinker needs. When Sinker raises a brow at him, though, he ignores it completely, focusing on the quiet chime of his comm. Whatever the notification is, it makes him stop short, mouth pulling down, and taps out a brief message, then tips his head towards the closest empty corner. “Over here.”

A little surprised, because Wolffe is never normally one to be late to any meeting, even if they're under heavy fire, Sinker follows. He settles himself between Wolffe and the hall, forming a barrier with his body, and Wolffe nods briefly in thanks, then calls up the holoprojector.

The tiny image of Fox that rises is a surprise, too, and Sinker pauses, frowning.

“Wolffe,” Fox says curtly, then glances to the side and nods. “Sergeant.”

“Commander,” Sinker returns politely, and gives a warning look to the trooper about to start down their section of hallway. He takes one look at Sinker’s expression and pulls an about-face, hurrying away, and Sinker turns back, satisfied.

“What’s happened?” Wolffe asks curtly, and Fox grimaces.

“I’ll be coming to meet you in the Ferra sector,” he says. “Me and my team. Senator Organa approved an investigation into the most recent assassination in the Mendavi system. We’ll be on Sekind a few rotations after you arrive.”

Sinker doesn’t raise a brow, but keeping his face neutral takes effort. Senator Organa is on enough committees that it makes sense he could approve such a thing, but—Sinker’s willing to bet he approved a team to go, not Fox himself. Fox doesn’t leave Coruscant unless he’s forced, and Sinker had _heard_ about the string of assassinations from Wolffe, but he hadn’t thought they were concerning enough to warrant the commander of the Guard getting dragged all the way out to the Outer Rim.

“You?” Wolffe asks, clearly stuck on the same point.

Fox pauses, then sighs, aggrieved. “Senator Organa insisted on accompanying whatever team went out,” he says. “And Senator Amidala of Naboo is coming as well. Given the risks…”

Logical, then, that he’d come, even if it still seems a little like overkill. “Luck, _vod_ ,” Wolffe says grimly, and Fox snorts in response. It makes a flicker of humor rise in Wolffe’s expression, but all he says is, “Any leads?”

Fox shakes his head. “Nothing solid yet. Apparently the planet’s investigators found something biological that they think belongs to the assassin, but until we’ve got a suspect to link, it’s useless. And right now, no one’s talking. Whoever is doing these hits, they're keeping it under the radar.”

“Great. An assassin with sense,” Wolffe says, displeased. “I can see if General Koon will approve a squad from the 104th to help with security, if you need it.”

“Please. I was hoping you’d offer.” Fox doesn’t exactly look happy about having to say that, but then, he mostly just looks tired. “I’ll message you the details as soon as we leave Naboo and things are finalized, but it shouldn’t be too long.”

Sinker opens his mouth, hesitates. It’s enough to make Wolffe look over at him, though, and at Wolffe’s raised brow, Sinker huffs and follows through. “What about General Skywalker?”

He doesn’t need to clarify. Instantly, Wolffe grimaces, and Fox pulls a face. Anyone who’s ever dealt with Senator Amidala knows _precisely_ what it’s like to then get a face-full of General Skywalker, rabidly overprotective and so bad at hiding his relationship with Amidala that it’s probably a criminal offense in at least thirteen systems. If she’s putting herself in the middle of a warzone, _especially_ a warzone near the 212th or the 501st, there's no way Skywalker won't immediately decamp to come find her.

“I think they might have broken things off,” Fox says, though he sounds dubious. “I caught the tail end of their comm when she told him she was leaving, and it didn’t sound pleasant.”

As someone who’s met both Amidala and Skywalker, Sinker can safely say that Skywalker likely didn’t take it well when Amidala said she was leaving for Sekind, and Amidala likely didn’t take it well when he tried to tell her not to go. He winces a little, but says, “At least you won't have to babysit him, too, Commander?”

“No,” Fox agrees, rueful. “And Senator Organa’s taking the brunt of the emotional fallout. But it’s not the best circumstances for finding an assassin before they decide to pick off another anti-war senator, and realize two just dropped into their laps.”

And as far as anti-war politicians go, Organa is one of the big ones. Amidala, too, but Organa has been in the Senate longer, has more sway. He’s friends with former Chancellor Valorum, has links to most of the other major influences in the Senate, and if the assassin is really targeting the politicians who are vocally against the war, Organa is a hell of a mark. Sinker glances at Wolffe, tilting his head in question, and Wolffe grimaces and then nods. As much as he normally doesn’t like to split the Wolfpack, sending Sinker to play security for the two senators is the best option.

“Any problems on your end?” Fox asks, hooking a thumb in his belt. “I heard Ti forced Grievous to retreat.”

“Again,” Wolffe says, and Sinker snorts in agreement. At this point, Ti and Kenobi should just be sent after Grievous together so that the GAR can be done with him. Given their track record against him, combining the two of them will take him out permanently, without a fuss.

“Again,” Fox allows dryly. “Blitz was in raptures.”

Wolffe’s eye-roll says precisely what he thinks about that. “We managed to keep the comm tower intact,” he says, and when Sinker casts him a sideways look, he doesn’t so much as twitch. It’s the truth, but—not all of it. And maybe some of that’s down to the channel not being the most secure, but it’s still interesting.

“I figured,” Fox says pointedly, “seeing as we’re talking right now.” He glances behind himself, then sighs and shoves his helmet back on. “Senator Organa’s moving. I’ll comm you again when we’re approaching Sekind. _K’oyacyi_.”

“ _K’oyacyi_ ,” Wolffe returns, and just for a moment his expression twists. “You're not used to the front, so—”

Fox barks a sharp laugh that’s full of edges. “Kiss my asteroid, Wolffe, Coruscant’s just a different kind of front at this point. They don’t give me medals because they _like_ me.”

“Asshole,” Wolffe retorts, though Sinker can see the tight line of his spine unbend a little. “You keep talking about those medals and I'm going to make you eat them.”

“You _dream_ of being able to make me eat them,” Fox counters, and closes the channel before Wolffe can get the last word in. It makes Wolffe snarl in annoyance, and Sinker has to hide a smirk. Fox is a bastard, but he’s made an _art_ of ending arguments. It’s impressive.

“Guess that means Stone gets to be in charge of the Guard for a bit,” Sinker says, only partially to distract Wolffe from his fuming. “Bet he’s trying to pull his hair out already.”

Wolffe grunts, scowling down at his comm for a moment before he drops his arm. “Still better than dealing with _Fox_ ,” he says derisively, but Sinker can read the concern in the slant of his mouth.

But—

“You didn’t tell him about Feral,” he says evenly.

Wolffe gives him a narrow look. “The general hasn’t alerted anyone yet. I'm not about to spill his secrets.”

Sinker concedes that with a tilt of his head, not about to argue. The idea of Feral getting thrown in prison as soon as they _do_ tell someone about him doesn’t sit well. Feral’s a Seppie, but unlike most of the big names in this war, he’s someone who actually cares about other people.

If they had more enemies like Feral, Sinker’s pretty sure the war would have ended a year ago.

“Meeting, let’s go,” Wolffe says shortly, clearly filing the topic away, and Sinker steps to the side so he can pass, then falls in behind him as they head towards the bridge.

There's a thread of unease settled in his gut, and he can't tell if it’s because of the assassinations, because he’s going to be playing backup to the Coruscant Guard as a meat shield, or because senators getting involved never means anything good for the fate of a mission, but either way, it’s not fading. There's nothing to be done, though, so Sinker grits his teeth and keeps moving.

Feral has a headache that’s making it hard to think straight.

His guards this time are two clones who didn’t introduce themselves and don’t seem inclined to, and normally Feral might push, might make a friendly overture, but right now there's a dull throbbing between his temples that edges into static if he focuses on it for too long, and he doesn’t want to do much of anything. The blanket Wolffe tossed over him before he left is still pooled in his lap, and Feral wants to pull it up over his head and hunker down on the cot, maybe sleep away the headache, but he can't manage to drag the blanket up with his hands bound behind him.

In other circumstances, he might ask the guards, but the one in the cell reeks of fear and anxiety, his grip around his blaster tight, and Feral hasn’t wanted to spook him by talking.

It’s the pain in his head that’s making him crabby, that’s edging him towards pathetic. Feral knows that, but the frustration still doesn’t go away, and he sits with his back against the wall, legs crossed, and tries to reach for equilibrium. Tries to slip into meditation the way Plo showed him, but it’s _hard_ when he’s distracted, and all he wants is to hide somewhere dark.

Savage used to know what to do when he got headaches. Savage would make him soup and stroke his back and sit with him in the darkness, a big, comforting barrier keeping Feral steady.

Now, though, that Savage is gone, and likely forever.

Feral doesn’t thump his head back against the wall, but only because he doesn’t want to startle the guard. Thinking like that doesn’t help, and it’s selfish. Savage is _fine_ , and he’s still here, and he has Maul to look after, who needs it more than Feral does. Wanting to go back to their lives in the Nightbrother village is wrong, especially when Feral knows precisely how hard it was for Savage. He’s everything a Dathomirian should be, handsome and fierce and skilled, and Feral was always so scared that—

But then Ventress came, and it didn’t matter.

The numbing static in his head is getting worse, and even Feral’s horns ache at this point. He grits his teeth, then lists sideways, slumping down on the cot and burying his face in the thin pillow. The guard takes a step, fear spiking, but Feral ignores him, focusing on breathing through the pain.

Sparks of green light swim behind his closed eyes, and Feral’s stomach turns. He feels cold, as cold as ice, colder than he should be even in the depths of space.

The hiss of the door opening is loud enough to make him wince, as are the steps that follows. Four steps, and then a pause, and there's a low sound of concern as the guard hurries to open the cell door.

“Feral?” Sinker asks, concerned, and a moment later a hand settles on Feral’s head as Sinker crouches next to the cot. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Just a headache,” Feral manages, and turns his head enough to crack an eye open and look at Sinker. Wolffe is behind him, frowning, but he isn't making any sort of move and that’s enough for Feral. He closes his eyes with a sigh, and says, half-muffled, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sinker says firmly, gently stroking his horns. It’s an unpracticed gesture, but Feral still appreciates it. “Want me to get Payback down here?”

Feral shakes his head, just a little. “I've always gotten them,” he says. Far more of them since Mother Talzin dragged him out of stasis and healed his broke neck, but—they're not something new.

“All right,” Sinker says, though he still sounds concerned. A moment later, hands tug at the blanket wrapped around Feral’s waist, and Sinker pulls it up over him, tucking it in around his shoulders. “You’re shivering. Want me to get another blanket?”

“Part of the headache,” Feral mutters, but gratefully huddles deeper into the cloth. Inside of his head feels _hot_ , in contrast to the rest of him, and the combination is making him nauseous.

From above him, there's a huff, and Wolffe steps forward. “Spanner, get Payback,” he says, and the guard in the cell immediately salutes and ducks out, heading for the door at a jog. When Feral raises his head slightly, about to protest, Wolffe just gives him a flat look, and says, “Roll over. On your front.”

Feral half-expects to get hauled up by his binders and marched out of the cell, but he still grits his teeth and obeys, rolling onto his stomach as best he can on the narrow cot. There's a pause as Wolffe just looks at him, and then a rough breath. “Ari, out.”

“Yes, sir,” the other guard says, and slides out of the brig without pause, leaving Wolffe, Feral, and Sinker alone.

There's another moment of silence, and then another low breath. A hand settles on the back of Feral’s head, making him flinch, but Wolffe doesn’t grab, doesn’t shove. Instead, he drags two knuckles down the back of Feral’s neck, just enough pressure behind them to feel, and then digs the heel of his palm into Feral’s spine, right between his shoulder blades. It makes Feral startle, but before he can even try to pull away Wolffe twists his hand, and muscle tightens, twitches—

Releases.

Feral’s breath shudders out on a groan, and he closes his eyes as Wolffe’s hand keeps working at his muscles, twisting and dragging up as he kneads the tension out of Feral’s spine. As he works his way up Feral’s neck, it takes effort not to actively moan, because it feels _good_. The pull and release of tension sparks up Feral’s spine, uncoils through him, and his head still hurts, but not nearly as much.

“Don’t you dare,” Wolffe growls, and Feral is too drugged with the easing of pain to realize who he’s talking to until he cracks an eye open and sees Sinker smirking, still crouched by his bed.

“Me, Commander?” Sinker drawls. “I would _never_. Payback teach you that?”

“Yes,” Wolffe says curtly, and when Sinker blinks at him, he rolls his eyes. “The cybernetic eye gives me headaches sometimes. Payback did this for me.”

“Don’t tell Shank, he’ll be incandescently jealous,” Sinker jokes, and Wolffe rolls his eyes again.

“Better?” he asks Feral, and his expression is still foreboding, but—

Feral swallows, burying his face in the pillow again and closing his eyes, even though sparks of green still spin behind them.

“Much,” he manages, and Wolffe makes a satisfied sound, digging his fingers into the nape of Feral’s neck with just the right amount of pressure.

Feral may or may not whimper as a crackle of releasing tension vibrates up through his head, and he slumps into the mattress, feeling boneless.

Those green flickers of light aren’t going away, though, and Feral’s throat feels hot, tight. He tries to swallow against it, and it hurts.

“Thank you,” he manages. “It’s—helping. A lot.”

Wolffe grunts, grip easing. His knuckles drag up and down Feral’s neck, hypnotic strokes that make Feral want to climb into his lap and curl up just to get more of them, and when he lifts his hand away Feral makes a despondent sound. It makes Wolffe huff, and he says, “Payback’s better at it, and he’ll be here in a minute. With that crack that was in your skull, he should check you.”

“Bantha shit,” Sinker mutters, chagrined. “Yeah, definitely better. Feral—”

His voice fuzzes out like static, and Feral’s head spins, obvious even with his eyes closed. Those green sparks turn into streamers, into acid-green fog, into _magic_ , and Feral chokes as the mark on his throat suddenly _burns_.

“Arise, my son,” Mother Talzin’s voice says, echoing through his head, and she’s the only thing in the whole galaxy that he can hear. “Arise, awaken. I have another task that falls to you. Kill Plo Koon for me, my son.”

Feral opens his eyes, and there’s nothing but static in his head. It’s the easiest choice in the world to obey.


	10. Chapter 10

Wolffe doesn’t need to be some sort of Jedi to feel the moment something goes wrong.

Under his hand, Feral suddenly goes stiff, convulses. The sound that’s ripped from his throat is nothing but pain, and it kicks like alarm in Wolffe’s chest, the sudden, desperate understanding that something is _off_.

He’s already reaching for Sinker when the snap of the binders breaking echoes through the cell like a blaster-shot.

“ _Feral_ ,” Sinker says, even as Wolffe hauls him to his feet and back towards the front of the cell. There's no response from Feral, though; it’s like he doesn’t even hear, and when he turns his head to look at them—

Long horns. Glowing eyes. Not just the glow of a predator’s eyes catching the light, but a sickly green light that’s overwhelmed the normal gold, unnatural and unnerving.

“Kriff,” Sinker says, and his hand tightens around Wolffe’s vambrace.

Wolffe doesn’t bother to agree, eyes fixed on Feral as he rises from the cot. His eyes are still blank, strange, and his face is absent, distant, like he isn't really there. After their fight in the tower, Wolffe _knows_ how Feral moves, how graceful he is even when he’s not paying attention, but this—this is something different. Something liquid and unsettling that doesn’t suit any creature with bones.

When he turns towards the front of the cell, the brand burned into his throat is glowing a dull, eerie red.

“Feral,” Sinker says again, louder, sharper. “Feral, wake up. It’s just us.”

For all the reaction Feral gives, Sinker might as well not be talking at all. He turns his head away, towards the door of the brig, and raises a hand.

The screech of bending metal is more than enough warning for Wolffe to throw Sinker into the far corner of the cell and dive after him, half a second before the door rips free of its moorings, hurtling across the room to slam into the wall. Feral steps through the gap, turning his head to look at the main door, and Wolffe remembers with a sudden, gut-wrenching lurch that Comet is on the other side of it.

And, like all of Wolffe’s worst fears come to life, the door slides open, Comet framed in the brig’s bright light. For half an instant he stares at Feral standing in the torn-open cell, and there’s disbelief and confusion on his face.

“Feral?” he asks, and his blaster dips. “Feral, what are you doing—”

Feral’s hand rises, and Wolffe _moves_.

“Alert the general!” he shouts, even as he tackles Feral around the waist, bearing him to the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Feral twists beneath him, tries to get a foot in Wolffe’s stomach to throw him off, but Wolffe got caught by that trick before, won't let it beat him again. He snarls, getting an arm under Feral’s chin and slamming his head down into the decking—

The green in Feral’s eyes flickers for the barest instant, that sickly glow winking out to be replaced with gold. Feral’s breath catches—

And then the green swirls back, the red brand on his throat blazing brighter, and unseen hands grab Wolffe and fling him off, straight into the wall. The air explodes from his lungs, but he doesn’t stop, ducks down as a dark shape lunges, and throws himself to the side as Feral drives an elbow into the wall where his head just was. Metal dents, but Wolffe would swear he hears bone crack, too, and when Feral drops his arm it hangs oddly.

Not feeling pain, Wolffe thinks grimly, rising to his feet and drawing one of his blaster pistols. He’s not registering damage, and he’s not hearing them, and there's something _off_ in his face and his bearing and his movements.

Feral is a Sith. He’s a Sith and the enemy and complicit in a thousand clones’ deaths, but—

But something is _wrong_ here, and Wolffe doesn’t need a comprehensive understanding of Nightsister magics to know that.

“Don’t get in his way,” Wolffe orders, because Sinker and Comet are both still close, still braced as they watch Feral advance. “He won't stop.”

Sinker’s expression twists. “Wolffe—”

“He’s not himself,” Wolffe says harshly, and doesn’t bother thinking about the implications of those words. Doesn’t try to think about what they mean for Feral as he normally is.

He’s not thinking about Feral in the lift, so resigned as he talked about Nightsisters killing his fellow Nightbrothers. Isn't thinking about Payback’s words, the injury to Feral’s spine, the way it must have been a miracle that Feral survived it.

A miracle of witchcraft, maybe.

There's a part of Wolffe’s brain that’s screaming about tricks, about traps sprung and lurking dangers and all of that. But even though Wolffe might be inclined to believe that under any other circumstances, the pieces here don’t add up. Between the eyes and the blank gaze and the way Feral doesn’t even seem to notice his shattered elbow, Wolffe’s willing to trust his instincts. This isn't Feral, and therefore their last fight can't be used as a benchmark. This Feral might very well kill, and Wolffe won't give him the chance.

“General Koon is on his way,” Comet reports, clicking his comm off. “Five minutes.”

For a motivated Jedi, probably less than that. It still might not be soon enough, though, because at the sound of Plo's name, Feral looks right at Comet, eyes suddenly fixed on him. He takes a step—

Wolffe doesn’t let himself consider, doesn’t hesitate. He fires right at Feral’s torso, knows it will miss and is already moving when Feral dips to the side, too fast for a regular person. Clones are used to reading body language—when they're in their helmets for so long, it’s practically a necessity—and this…this isn't the body language from the comm tower. This isn't anything _close_. Feral there was deft and lightfooted and quick, but this—

This is more like how Savage used to move than anything.

Wolffe doesn’t let himself think of Savage’s impossible strength, all the brothers he’s murdered. Just grabs, throwing all of his weight behind it as Feral lashes out, and slams him hard into the wall. His head collides with the metal, and Wolffe grabs those strangely longer horns and shoves hard, bouncing his skull off the wall again with twice the force behind it.

Feral’s hands slip off his armor, and just for a moment the gold in his eyes is brighter than the green. They don’t focus, barely have time to do more than widen, but—

The change is there. Wolffe can use that.

“Knock him out!” he snarls, and hears Sinker’s sharp sound of affirmation, the step. An instant later he’s thrown free, manages to twist in the air and land mostly on his feet in a crouch as Feral straightens right into Sinker’s fist. Feral barely seems to feel the impact against his jaw, and he flings a hand out, lifting Sinker off his feet, then has to leap aside as Wolffe slams the butt of his pistol down at his temple. He loses his grip on Sinker, who hits the ground coughing but already moving, and just as he lashes out to sweep Feral’s feet out from under him, Wolffe twists around, drives an elbow right between Feral’s shoulder blades, and grabs his horns. Hauls him back, off-balance, and drags him down, shoving his head down into the metal plating with a crack.

This time, when he lifts it, there's blood on the floor.

There's also clarity, though. Just for an instant, but Wolffe catches it, the way Feral falters, the sudden jerk like he’s trying to recoil. He makes a choked sound, fingers scratching at Wolffe’s pauldrons but not trying to grab, and Wolffe can _see_ the confusion that twists through his features, the alarm, the dismay. He opens his mouth, but all that emerges is a ragged rasping hiss, and the mark _glows_.

Wolffe rolls off of him half a second before the broken door panel goes flying over them, close enough that it would have decapitated Wolffe if he were any slower.

“Farking hells,” Sinker says, but holds out a hand. “Comet!”

Without even hesitating, Comet throws him his blaster. “Sir!”

“Seal the door,” Wolffe orders, pulling himself to his feet. “Wait for the general.”

Comet’s mouth tightens, but he nods, ducking back through the open doorway. The brig door slides shut, and there's a heavy thump, a whine of alarms. In the wash of red light that rises, Wolffe straightens, grip tightening on his pistol, and faces the figure of the Sith across the room.

This one really is a Sith. Feral as he normally is—even Wolffe is starting to have trouble using the title. This one, though—

He’s just like Savage, and that makes him dangerous as hell.

“Feral,” Sinker says, the start of a plea, but there's still no reaction to the name.

“Plo Koon will stop you,” Wolffe says, and _that_ gets a reaction. Feral’s eyes snap to him, sickly green but focused, and Wolffe snorts. “Guess that’s your target. But it’s not going to matter. Plo's a Jedi. He won't spare you if there are lives on the line.”

That, at least, Wolffe has never had to doubt. Plo might joke around and tease and flirt, but if his men are on the line, nothing will stop him from saving them. Even here, with this, Wolffe can have faith in that.

“Kriff, Wolffe,” Sinker mutters, but he’s circling around behind Feral, blaster in his hands. Feral doesn’t even glance at him; his faze is fixed on Wolffe, and he advances a short step, almost threatening. That would be applying too much emotion to him, though, Wolffe thinks grimly, and tilts his pistol.

“Not one more step,” he warns, and Feral stops, head cocked. His eyes narrow, flickering from Wolffe to Sinker, and that’s not an expression that sits well on Feral’s face. It’s cruelty and calculation and something dark and ruthless, and it curls dark and terrifying down Wolffe’s spine.

“Don’t you _dare_ —” he snarls, but Feral is already moving, leaping the bolt Wolffe puts in the air and flipping backwards, grabbing Sinker. Sinker shouts, twists, swings, and the butt of his blaster just misses Feral’s horns as Feral drops behind him. With a jerk, Sinker tries to spin, but an elbow snapped forward into the back of Sinker’s head sends him crashing to the ground in a heap.

Wolffe feels a sharp crack of fear, and he lunges with a snarl, but Feral snaps out a hand and throws Sinker right into Wolffe, sending them crashing back into the door. Wolffe hits hard, takes the brunt of the impact and catches Sinker’s head as they drop, then rolls up, blaster aimed right at center mass.

He fires six shots, and Feral scatters every one as he advances.

“You're a pain in the ass,” Wolffe snaps at him, and shoves to his feet, dragging Sinker with him. He’s still limp, boneless, but Wolffe can feel that he’s breathing and that’s enough for now. Putting himself between Sinker and Feral, he aims again, tries to calculate how best to distract Feral while he gets Sinker out of the way. In the cell, maybe; Feral hasn’t seemed to want to go out of his way to get to them. Just out, so he can kill Plo.

Feral doesn’t answer, just raises a hand. Wolffe tenses, braced to leap away from flying doors—

An invisible hand goes tight around his throat, lifting him off his feet, and Wolffe chokes.

He grabs for the grip, automatic, desperate. Loses his hold on Sinker as he’s hauled up, kicking and thrashing, but he can't _breathe_ and that grip is tightening—

The door slides open, and Feral goes flying back into his cell.

Familiar hands catch Wolffe as he falls, drop him right on his feet, and Plo steadies him with a tight grip on his shoulder as he wheezes. “Commander,” he says in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Mark,” Wolffe manages, rasping, and shoves at Plo's hand, because he’s not important, the _Sith_ is important. “Is glowing.”

“The Nightsisters’ mark?” Plo asks, and when Wolffe nods quickly, it makes him frown and look back at where Feral is just advancing. “Most alarming. Feral, my dear, what has been done to you?”

There's no answer. Feral’s eyes flicker down to the lit lightsaber in Plo's hand, then up again, and narrow.

Plo chuckles, sounding immensely amused. “You may try it if you like, my dear,” he says, “but if Mace Windu himself cannot manage to disarm me with any frequency, I think you have rather less of a chance.”

“ _General_ ,” Wolffe manages, aggrieved, and Plo laughs outright, darts forward almost too quick to believe and meets Feral’s lunge with a twist and a leap right over his head. He twists as he comes down, kicks Feral hard between his shoulder blades and throws him forward into the wall. Feral hits, falls, rolls back up into a crouch—

Plo's lightsaber settles beneath his chin, and Plo says calmly, “We can do this the easy way if you surrender now, child.”

Feral growls, not anywhere close to a Human sound, but low, vibrating. He surges up, right at Plo, and Plo has to leap back to avoid cutting his head off, ducks beneath a lashing fist and steps sideways around a kick. Shifts back, one deft half-turn, and catches Feral by the neck of his robes, hauling Feral up against him with a jerk.

Instead of locking his lightsaber beneath his chin, though, the way Wolffe’s seen him do a hundred times with opponents, he locks an arm around his neck, grabs his horns with the same hand, and shoves Feral forward into the wall and pins him there.

Feral hisses, bucks, but with one wrecked arm he can't budge Plo. He shoves back, grabs for Plo's rebreather—

Wolffe swings with the butt of Comet’s blaster, and Plo lets go and steps back half a second before it impacts. Feral tries to twist aside, but there's no chance, no room to avoid it. The weapon slams into the side of his head with a sickening crack, and he crumples, the light of the mark winking out as green vapor bleeds from him like a noxious cloud. It twists in the air for a moment, then evaporates, and there's nothing left of it.

In its wake, Feral slumps, every last bit of tension bleeding out of his muscles. His horns shrink, and in an instant he seems smaller, like whatever that mist was it added mass that’s gone now.

Hash breaths too loud in the quiet, Wolffe takes a step back, lowering the blaster, and closes his eyes. His throat aches, bruise-deep, and there are more bruises spreading up his back, but—

“Glad you made it, sir,” he manages, and means it desperately.

There's a quiet chuckle, and gentle claws tip his chin up. When Wolffe opens his eyes, Plo is studying what are probably already impressive bruises, something tight in the lines around his eyes.

“You held your own without me, Commander,” Plo says. “But I'm glad I could be of assistance.”

“I'm fine,” Wolffe tells him, and Plo inclines his head, accepting that.

“The sergeant?” he asks.

“Hit in the head,” Wolffe answers. “You?”

Plo hums. “It will take far more than a Sith with only a few months of training to pose a threat to me,” he says, amused. Letting go of Wolffe, he steps past him, crouching down to check on Sinker, and gently rearranges him so he’s lying more comfortably. Then, deliberate, he steps over to where Feral is crumpled, blood staining the floor beneath his head, and breathes out, rasping through his mask.

“Oh, Feral,” he says gently, and rolls him over, steadying his head carefully. Wolffe grimaces to himself, but he moves to join Plo, helping him resettle Feral on the decking.

“Had a headache,” he rasps, and when Plo glances at him, he tips his shoulder. “Before. Then the mark.” His throat aches, but he grits his teeth and forges on anyway. “Hit his head, and he—got better. Saw me.”

Plo is silent for a long moment, then sighs. “Nightsister magics,” he says. “The version of Feral we faced in the communications tower fought very differently. More like Maul. This was akin to Ventress.”

Wolffe refuses to acknowledge the sharp jolt, like fear turned to electricity, that burns in his nerves. Breathes, grim, and tries to look at it objectively, and—Plo is right. Feral moved more like Ventress here, though it was a rough version, not nearly as smooth and deadly.

Even without a weapon, Ventress would have killed Wolffe and Sinker within moments and kept going. Wolffe knows he’s good, that his men are among the best, but they can't beat a Force-user like Ventress. The fact that they almost managed it with Feral at any point speaks volumes.

“He would have beaten us at the tower,” Wolffe says harshly. “All the troops. But now he didn’t, with us.” A jerk of his chin indicates Sinker. “Why?”

Plo considers for a long moment, stroking Feral’s shortened horns. “Before, he was willing to engage you hand to hand,” he says. “Now he resorted to using the Force as a blunt weapon, even when hand to hand might have done more.”

Wolffe resists the urge to put a hand to his throat, remembers the way Feral flung a flash-bang grenade back at him, when they fought at the tower. He’d used the Force then, but—as an extra edge to his ability to fight. Here the Force was the sole focus.

“Told you this was a bad idea,” he mutters, and Plo laughs warmly, reaching out to clasp his shoulder.

“Ah,” he says merrily, “but if we hadn’t taken Feral with us, how would we have found the Nightsisters’ new assassin?”

Wolffe frowns, sitting back on his heels. “Not Dooku?” he asks.

“I have no doubt that Mother Talzin is willing to offer up the services of her assassin to whoever is most willing to pay,” Plo says, and Wolffe eyes him warily. That mild a tone doesn’t bode well for the target of it. “But I would assume that Feral is her personal plaything, not Dooku's, given the way he fights.”

Before Wolffe can respond, there's a rap at the door, and through it, a voice calls, “Everyone dead in there yet?”

Payback. Great. Wolffe rolls his eyes so hard they _hurt_.

Plo laughs warmly. “Not quite yet, Lieutenant,” he says. “But I believe your services are needed.”

The door slides open, and Payback leans in, taking in the scene in a quick sweep and then immediately heading for Sinker. “My services don’t come cheap,” he counters, but he has his kit open within moments and his scanner out. “I don’t know if you can afford me, sir.”

“I have a bottle of Mon Cala sea fruit brandy that would argue your services are very easily bought,” Plo teases gently, and Payback laughs, riffling through his kit and pulling out a hypo and a bacta patch.

“What can I say? I’d do just about anything for your brandy, sir. You know how easy I am for it,” he says, and glances at Wolffe as he presses the hypo into Sinker’s bicep. “Don’t make that face, Commander. You're going to get stuck like that someday.”

Wolffe makes a rude gesture at him, refusing to spare any words for the bastard. It just makes Payback snort, of course, and he tilts Sinker’s head up to apply the bacta patch, then rises. Pauses, looking from Wolffe to Feral, and Wolffe can see the conflict that flickers. Enemies are supposed to be treated last, and comrades first, but Feral was something in between, and he’s the one who’s bleeding.

“Just bruising,” he says, flicking a hand at his own throat. “Him next.”

“That’s practically kind of you,” Payback drawls, though he’s already moving. “Are you sure _you_ didn’t hit your head, Commander?”

Wolffe scoffs, even though it hurts his throat, and reaches out. In lieu of words, he cuffs Payback in the side of the head as he passes, and Payback makes a sound of indignation, ducking away from a second smack.

“General!” he protests. “You see him abusing the men, aren’t you going to say anything?”

Plo chuckles, staying where he is next to Feral. “One might say you deserved it, Lieutenant,” he says, amused.

Payback flashes him a smile as he drops into a crouch, and Wolffe feels slightly better about how he’s braced to move at the first hint of danger. “Me? I'm sweet as sugar, sir. Couldn’t be true.”

He pointedly ignores Wolffe’s second, louder scoff, through Wolffe can see his smirk grow.

With a quiet chuckle, Plo raises his hands. “The patient?” he asks.

Payback checks his scanner, then reaches out, gently shifting Feral’s head just enough to see where it’s bleeding. “There's another crack in his skull, and his elbow is going to need surgery before I can use a bone-mender on it,” he says. “Other than that, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary except a slightly elevated body temperature.”

Plo is silent for a long moment, grave and considering, and then asks, “Can you wake him?”

Payback raises a brow, but doesn’t argue. “Yes, sir. Want me to?”

“If you would, Lieutenant.” Plo catches Wolffe’s shift closer and smiles at him, reassuring. “I believe Feral’s mind is his own again, Wolffe.”

“Forgive me if I'm skeptical,” Wolffe says harshly, and doesn’t jerk a thumb at Sinker. He doesn’t have to.

Something sad crosses Plo's face, and he doesn’t answer, just watches Payback carefully press a hypo to Feral’s throat, wary of the mark. As soon as the cartridge empties, he’s shifting back, just out of easy arm’s reach, and Wolffe takes a deliberate step in front of him, going down on one knee so he’s closer if he needs to pin Feral bodily.

Half a second later, there's a twitch, a jerk. Feral’s eyes fly open, and the sight of gold shouldn’t be a relief, but Wolffe still feels something in his chest unknot even so. He watches Feral’s face carefully as Feral lies there, staring at the ceiling like he can't figure out where he is, and—

With a sound of pure terror, Feral wrenches upright, reaching. Wolffe grabs him automatically, ready to slam him back against the floor, but—

Instead of fighting, Feral clutches at him, and Wolffe doesn’t have to be a Jedi to recognize the surge of fear that washes through him, the way it makes him grab at Wolffe’s armor. Feral’s eyes fix on Wolffe’s throat, widening, and he makes a sound of desperate denial.

“I did that,” he says, wavering, and looks up. Meets Wolffe’s eyes, and there's nothing but horror in him. “I didn’t—I _wouldn’t_ —I—”

“You remember,” Wolffe says, not quite an accusation, but it’s a hoarse sound, rough, and Feral jerks like Wolffe just drove a fist into his face. Looks past him—

His gaze settles on Sinker, and he goes still.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no, I wouldn’t hurt him—”

“He’ll be all right,” Plo says gently, putting a hand on Feral’s shoulder, but Feral doesn’t look at him, doesn’t react. He just ducks down, fingers digging into Wolffe’s armor, and Wolffe can feel him shaking, a fine tremor that rocks him. Hears the harsh, choked breath that shudders out like a sob, and closes his eyes.

“Feral,” he says sharply, and Feral stills in his grip. Doesn’t look up, doesn’t move, just waits.

“He’ll have a headache,” Wolffe says, and when Feral finally lifts his head to glance at him, he meets his eyes and holds them. “He’s alive.”

Feral’s expression twists. “I could have broken your neck,” he whispers, and reaches out. Wolffe doesn’t react to the fingers that lightly touch the darkening marks on his throat, but for the way Feral’s face crumples, he might as well have screamed and recoiled. “I—I could have—”

There are a dozen things Wolffe could say. Half as many that he _wants_ to say. But after a long, long moment, he takes a breath and says, “It wasn’t your choice.”

And that’s what matters, isn't it? Feral as he is right now wouldn’t have knocked Sinker out, strangled Wolffe, tried to kill Plo. His reaction proves that. And maybe it’s not _all_ Wolffe needs to know, but—it’s already a hell of a lot.

Feral ducks his head, and this time his shoulders shake for another reason. He slumps forward, right into Wolffe, burying his face in his armor and leaving a streak of blood smeared across the plastoid. And he just…stays there, tucked into Wolffe’s hold, shaking, with hitching breaths that are harder to listen to than outright sobs would be.

Wolffe closes his eyes, breathes out. He shifts his grip, wrapping an arm around Feral’s shoulders, and sinks back, pulling Feral right into his lap. An instant later, arms wrap around his neck, and Feral clings to him, still trembling. There’s despair in his face, pain and regret and fear, and Wolffe reaches up and gently strokes his horns, letting him stay right where he is.

Plo is watching, gaze solemn, sad. When Wolffe meets his eyes, he tilts his head, then reaches out, stroking Feral’s back lightly.

“The Dark Side is responsible for terrible things,” he says gravely. “You resisted it as best you could, Feral.”

“No,” Feral says, choked, and his grip tightens. “I didn’t—I didn’t fight it. I didn’t even think about fighting.”

Wolffe thinks of slamming Feral’s head into the decking, the wash of horror and awareness that returned before it was eaten away again by that green magic, and exhales, harsh and angry. Angry at Feral, at the Nightsisters, at everything and anything. But—

“You did,” he says, and when Feral takes a shaky breath against his throat, he closes his eyes. “You tried. I saw it.”

Feral’s breath hitches, shakes, shudders out of him. Something hot and wet smears against the bruises on Wolffe’s throat, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything else. Just holds on and doesn’t let go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: attempted self harm and reference to past sexual abuse. Also please mind the increased rating.

Feral knows he should move. He should pull himself together, stand up, surrender himself to Plo Koon again. Even if it means spending the rest of the trip drugged, or suspended in a stasis field, or locked in the deepest, darkest part of the ship, it’s deserved.

They had to carry Sinker away on a _stretcher_. Anything is deserved at this point.

Anything but this. Anything but Wolffe, still holding onto him. Not protesting, even though Feral is bleeding all over his armor. Not moving, even though he’s sitting on hard plating and Feral is heavy. Just—

Holding Feral, one arm around his back. Fingers tangled with his horns, stroking them, thumb rubbing lightly over one of his larger horns like Feral didn’t just try to _murder_ him.

It’s not even that it was a fight. Feral’s been in combat before, even if Savage and Maul are usually nearby. It’s not the danger, or having to go up against people he doesn’t _want_ to kill. It’s the fact that he didn’t have any sort of choice, no chance to fight back except in those scattered moments when Wolffe got through to him.

Feral could have killed Wolffe and Sinker and Comet and he never would have _known_.

It makes him wonder, cold, nauseating, how many people he’s already killed without knowing it.

Maybe it’s the fact that Plo and Wolffe interrupted the magic so many times, or the fact that he was woken from whatever ritual the Nightsisters were using before it was released, but Feral remembers Mother Talzin’s voice in his head, the weight of her order to kill Plo. He hadn’t wanted to do anything but obey, hadn’t even considered resisting or feeling anything except pleasure that she would choose to give him an order. But—

He’s been getting headaches like the one today more frequently since Mother Talzin had him resurrected. And if those headaches come from her reaching out to him, if they're a sign of that ritual starting, it means that at least some of his headaches have been because she was taking control of him.

How many other people has he killed? How many times has this happened before, and Feral just has no memory in the aftermath?

His breath hitches, and he curls tighter against Wolffe, knows he should let go but can't bear to. There's a faint sigh against his temple, but Wolffe just shifts a little, leaning back against the wall and cupping the back of Feral’s skull. His touch isn't precisely gentle, but—that’s better. This is firm, and steady, and that’s a comfort all its own.

“Sorry,” Feral whispers, and doesn’t know what he means it for, the red on Wolffe’s armor or the bruises on his neck or the echoes of fading fear that ping across Feral’s senses like glass cracking under pressure. For Sinker or Plo put in danger or all of it, and the fact that he didn’t turn his back at the tower and just walk away.

Right now, more than ever, it feels like vanishing into the depths of the galaxy would be the best option for everyone.

Except that it wouldn’t. Except that Mother Talzin can reach out at any moment and take him over again, control him, turn him into a puppet the same ways she did Savage.

He almost broke Wolffe’s neck, the same way Savage broke his.

The horror crests, rocks through Feral like a blow, and he hisses, digs his fingers hard into Wolffe’s armor. “Kill me,” he says, and it shakes but he can't _not_ say it. “Kill me, or lock me up, or drug me, because you can't—she’ll get me again—”

“We’re not killing you,” Wolffe says harshly, though his hands stay where they are. “And I think we proved just how easily you can get out of the brig if we lock you up.”

Anger sparks, unfamiliar, uncertain. Feral shoves back from Wolffe’s chest, meets his narrowed stare defiantly. He can feel Plo behind him still, watchful, quiet, but—it’s a comfort right now, after everything. Plo will do the right thing, is something goes wrong. He’s a _Jedi_.

“Didn’t you _want_ to lock me up?” he demands, and—maybe like this he can understand Maul and Savage a little more. The anger is there. It’s at _everything_ , at Mother Talzin and Savage for breaking his neck and Ventress for setting all of this into motion, at Dooku and the Republic and the war. At Wolffe, too, because Wolffe is so _scared_ of him, so suspicious, so _angry_ , and if anyone can be trusted to lock Feral up where he won't hurt anyone, it _should_ be Wolffe.

Wolffe just watches him, frowning, and doesn’t answer.

Feral can't _breathe_. There's a hand around his throat, or maybe a voice in his head, and he thinks of green light rising like acid to eat away at him, to eat away at _Savage_. He loves Savage. He _loved_ Savage, the older brother who would have died for him. That was Ventress’s fault. That was _Feral’s_ fault.

He staggers to his feet, breath twisting too hard in his lungs, eyes burning, throat tight. “Lock me up! Or kill me!” he growls, right at Wolffe, and doesn’t bother to modulate it, to keep his voice down, to keep his temper in check. “You’ve wanted to right from the start, haven’t you? I _scare_ you! You want me dead!”

Silence, too loud in his ears.

Slowly, carefully, Wolffe rises to his feet, picking up his blaster pistol from the floor as he goes. Straightens, watching Feral steadily, and then deliberately raises the pistol and levels it at the center of Feral’s chest. Tips it, and then says, “Zabraks have two hearts. Shooting you here won't do any good. It would have to be a headshot.”

The blaster comes to rest against Feral’s forehead, right between his smallest horns. It’s perfectly steady, unwavering, and Feral looks into Wolffe’s cold expression and closes his eyes, breathing out. He can feel…certainty, in Wolffe. A deep, cool recognition of the right thing to do, and it’s not comforting, but it’s a relief all the same.

He remembers the fear he felt before, in the tower, when Sinker blocked his path and Wolffe caught him, the metallic bite that echoed the blaster against the back of his head. It’s amusing, almost, that everything’s come full circle. Or maybe just bitter.

“You didn’t strike me as the overdramatic type,” Wolffe says, and Feral almost wants to laugh.

“It runs in the family,” he says, and thinks _Savage will be fine. He has Maul_. It’s the only thing he can think of to worry about right now.

Wolffe doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Feral swallows, but doesn’t let himself open his eyes. Bad enough to have to feel what Wolffe is feeling, when he pulls the trigger. He doesn’t want to have to see it written on his face, too.

And then, without warning, the blaster drops. A hand catches his horns, pulling his head up, and Feral startles, eyes flying open. He looks straight into Wolffe’s mismatched eyes and freezes under the darkness in his stare.

“No,” Wolffe says sharply. “It’s not that easy. Stand up and fight.” He shakes Feral once, firmly, and then turns. “Come on. You're staying with me.”

For an instant, Feral can't even begin to find words. “ _What_?” he demands, putting a hand up to his bleeding head, and wondering if the ringing in his ears is making him mishear things.

“Come on,” Wolffe repeats, impatient. “I know the signs, if you're about to get hit with that magic. I can knock you out if it happens. You stay close to me, and you don’t so much as _breathe_ a threat at my men, and I won't crack your skull open again.”

Feral’s eyes are burning. He swallows again, glances back at where Plo is standing by the empty cell with his arms crossed over his chest.

It’s hard to tell, but beneath the rebreather, Feral gets the feeling that he’s smiling.

When Plo makes no move to stop him, though, Feral cautiously moves after Wolffe, feeling…untethered. Too vulnerable, like he’s in the middle of an empty plain, with predators circling. When he slips through the door, though, Wolffe is waiting, speaking with Comet, and he glances back with a scowl, then tips his head like he’s urging Feral to move faster.

“Binders?” Feral ventures cautiously, not entirely sure where this is meant to be going.

Wolffe snorts. “You snapped the last ones like tissues. Like hell I'm wasting another pair on you. Comet, don’t let the general argue.”

“Yes, sir,” Comet says quickly, and sneaks a sideways glance at Feral, who freezes. Comet eyes him for a moment, then asks, “You okay?”

Now Feral’s throat is _really_ tight. He nods, and says, “I'm sorry for scaring you.”

“I get the sneaking suspicion that wasn’t entirely your fault,” Comet says, a little dryly. He pauses, steps back, nods, and heads into the brig, leaving Feral alone in the hallway with Wolffe.

“Medbay first,” Wolffe says curtly. “Payback needs to fix your arm.”

“And you need bacta,” Feral says quietly, curling a hand around the bicep of his bad arm. It hurts, but—he can stand it. He _can't_ stand the purpling bruises around Wolffe’s throat, just above the collar of his blacks.

Wolffe scoffs. “I don’t need—”

“Wolffe,” Feral interrupts, and he can't bring himself to make it sharp, but—insistent, at the very least. “Please.”

Wolffe’s eyes flicker to Feral’s own throat, the mark on his skin. He stops, frowning, and then lets is gaze slide up again to lock with Feral’s.

“The Nightsisters are the ones who repaired your broken neck,” he says.

Feral doesn’t want to talk about this. He _doesn’t_. Right now his biggest desire is to find a dark corner in a room that locks from the outside, and stay there. But—

If anyone deserves answers, it’s Wolffe right now.

“Yes,” he says evenly. “After—after it was broken, they put me in stasis. In case I would be useful. I never knew why Mother Talzin fixed me and woke me up. But—I suppose I do now.”

Wolffe’s breath is harsh in the quiet hallway, but he inclines his head. “Bacta,” he agrees. “Let’s go. Payback is probably already setting up as many tests as possible.”

Feral blinks. “Why?” he asks cautiously.

Wolffe’s face twists with annoyance. “Because he lives to piss me off,” he mutters, and starts down the corridor. “Move it.”

Feral does, quickly falling into step with him. After having his hands cuffed for so many days, he’s not entirely sure what to do with them, so he fists them at his sides as he looks down, and tries to think of how to phrase what he wants to ask.

Finally, he manages, “Why didn’t you take the shot?”

“Because that’s giving up,” Wolffe says curtly. “That’s giving in to someone who hurt you, and that’s the same as letting them win.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Feral says quietly, and it aches, but—it’s just the truth. “The Nightsisters always win. There's no way to stop them.”

Wolffe looks at him, then away. “Ventress took my eye,” he says, and it’s almost bland, nothing but a statement of fact. “Because she could. Because it would hurt me.”

Feral stops dead in the hallway, staring at him. Wolffe comes to a halt, too, turning to face him, and there's no sympathy in his expression, no softness. His soul feels like a steel-strong anchor, or maybe like a rope tossed out to someone drowning.

“Ventress?” Feral asks, and he knows his voice wavers.

Wolffe’s doesn’t. “She’s a Nightsister. But I won't let her win.”

He turns, keeps walking. It does nothing to hide that seed of fear in him, the rough, reluctant curl of something akin to empathy or the old pain, but—

He moves, and after a long, long moment, Feral follows.

Sometimes, just being off Dathomir feels like an impossible dream.

Savage can't do much to hide himself, because being over two meters tall is never subtle, but—if he keeps his hood up and doesn’t move too quickly, he can usually pass mostly unnoticed, or at least unremarked. Outer Rim planets like Sekind are places where everyone minds their own business, and the freedom of it is almost gutting after so many years spent on Dathomir.

There are no witches here. There are no Nightbrothers, no expectations, no threats like Savage grew up with. He has to be careful of his strength, and mind his anger, but there's no constant awareness that a Nightsister could appear at any moment, tearing everything apart.

Technically, he’s gathering information. Technically, he’s trying to see if there's any word of when Plo Koon's ships will arrive, and whether anyone has heard of him taking a prisoner. Sekind is a Republic world still, after all, and there are armed guards near the government center, braced for invasion.

The governor here has been calling for peace, and the senator, too. Savage wonders how long such a thing will last, once Dooku closes in.

There's been no word of Plo Koon yet, though, and Savage is frustrated, worried, but—

It’s summer in this hemisphere, and the air is bright, and the people here don’t seem touched by the war yet. A native with her fur gone blonde with age smiles at him as he passes, beckoning him towards a table filled with local sweets, and she’s hardly the only one who seems cheerful. Savage shakes his head and keeps moving, but it’s…not unpleasant.

It’s easier to control his temper, like this. Without all the anger that usually bubbles up. Without the constant reminders of what happened.

Feral, he thinks, would love this planet.

Here and now, the rage that comes with that thought still exists, but the grief is a sharper thing, harsher, more overwhelming. Savage loves Maul, and _needs_ to stay with him, but Feral needs _something_. Some help, some person who isn't Mother Talzin, someone who will keep him safe. Maul tries as best he can, but he still sees Feral as his assassin, Savage as his apprentice, the only contexts he can give relationships.

Feral grew up differently than Maul. If Savage could still protect him—

But Savage is the greatest threat to him, and there's no changing that.

There are no other options, though. The Nightbrothers exist as slaves to the Nightsisters, and some Nightbrothers might resent it, might hate it, but none will object. None will defy Mother Talzin, even if another Nightbrother’s life is in the balance. They serve, and they obey, and someone like Feral, quiet and kind and simply trying to survive in a world he never should have been pulled into, is the collateral.

Savage thinks, sometimes, that he should have hidden Feral when Ventress came. He should have pushed him into the swamp and told him to run, run and find another tribe of witches, but Brother Viscus would have noticed Feral’s absence immediately. But the other tribes would have taken one look at a male affiliated with the Nightsisters, a heretic tribe, and executed him at _best_. The witches control all of the spaceports, all of the trade and travel into and out of Dathomir, and there was no chance that Feral could have managed to smuggle himself off their homeworld without being caught and subjected to all the things Savage feared most for him.

Being Maul’s assassin and Acolyte is the better choice, no matter how terrible it seems.

It’s a greedy, angry thing, but Savage _wants_ to be what he used to be to his brother. Wants to go back, or have those moments imposed on this one, to have everything go back to normal.

But he broke his brother’s neck. He _killed_ his own brother, and the fact that he hesitated but still went through with it in the end just makes it worse.

Ventress. It was Ventress and Mother Talzin and all the other Nightsisters, and when Savage ran to Talzin, when he _begged_ her for help after Ventress’s attack on Dooku failed, she _still_ hadn’t told him that Feral was alive. Instead, she gave him the amulet, guided him to Maul, and Savage knows deep and raw in his chest that it wasn’t out of any motherly concern, but because Maul was _valuable_. He was a strong Nightbrother who could help her gain power, and so she sent Savage to retrieve him.

 _But all my kin are dead_ , he’d said, and she’d smiled with choking sympathy and told him _lies_.

Breath shuddering out of his chest, Savage stumbles a step, forcing himself sideways out of the main street and into the shadowed edge of the building. There's a stall in front of him, hung with bright cloth, and he stares blankly at it as he struggles to keep himself under control. Doesn’t dare touch anything, or breathe too hard, or move at all, because he can feel the fury like a storm inside his chest and if he slips right now, he’s going to draw his lightsaber and tear through this whole city, slaughtering every sentient he comes across. And he doesn’t _care_ , he doesn’t, he doesn’t care so much it _burns_ like acid in his chest, a numb, howling hole, but—

But Feral would like this planet, and Feral hates the aftermath of his rages. Last time he accompanied Maul and Savage on a mission, he hadn’t even been able to _look_ at Savage in the aftermath. Savage had stood in the center of the ship, boots bloody, lightsaber hot in his hand even after he deactivated it, and all he’d been able to think about was his hand around Feral’s throat, the snap of delicate bones breaking as his grip tightened. The way he’d felt _pleased_ , to drop Feral at Ventress’s feet, because he’d done what he was ordered and passed her test.

He’s going to break something. He’s going to destroy something, and prove to himself just why Feral is afraid of him. Just why Feral _hates_ him—

“It’s pretty, isn't it?” a woman asks, right behind his shoulder. “This planet has some of the best weavers in the galaxy.”

Savage turns his head, and the fact that there's a Human woman beside him only registers dull surprise through the roil of anger and hate that’s choking him. He doesn’t say anything, but the woman steps forward even so, reaching out to touch one of the lengths of cloth. It’s a bright orange-gold, with an undertone of pink, and Savage thinks grimly that it looks like one of Dathomir’s sunsets. He and Feral used to hunt in the swamps, and sunsets like that were a moment to take a breath, eat something, sit down and just relax for a moment. Savage remembers good moments like that, but—

The snap of Feral’s neck breaking rings through every last one, seeping across quiet moments in the past like poison, and Savage can't escape it.

He doesn’t deserve to escape it.

“I like this one, too,” the woman says whimsically, brushing the orange cloth aside to reach for one in deep blue, scattered with black threads. The orange one slips, sliding from its hanger with a hiss, and—

Savage catches it. It seems like a shame, in that moment, to let it hit the ground and be ruined.

The feeling of the cloth in his hands is almost alarming, because it’s so delicate it feels like it could tear at the slightest breath, and Savage freezes, not sure what to do. Twitches, wants to fling it back into the stall before he can rip it apart with a moment of uncontrolled strength—

A slim hand settles over his on the cloth, and the woman draws one edge of it out, admiring the drape of it. “Isn't it beautiful?” she asks, and when she looks up at Savage, she’s smiling. Her eyes are brown, and she’s wearing a headwrap of glittering, dark green cloth edged in white. “Sekind weavers treat it with a substance that makes it resistant to blaster bolts, and it’s fireproof, too.”

“Strong,” Savage manages, and dares to turn his hand just a little, letting the cloth run through his fingers. It’s…soft. He hadn’t noticed, in the grip of his alarm.

“And soft,” the woman agrees, still smiling. “You can draw a whole dress made out of it through a lady’s ring.”

Feral would like it, Savage thinks, and swallows. The Nightbrothers—they never had bright colored cloth for their clothes. All the red dyes they managed to harvest from the swamp went to dyeing the Nightsisters’ robes, and red wasn’t a color the Nightbrothers were allowed. And this—it would go well with Feral’s coloring.

But Feral is a Sith now, and he’s only supposed to wear black. They're not allowed anything else, and Savage knows without having to ask that Maul wouldn’t break such a rule, even for his brother.

Still. Even knowing that, he wants to tuck the cloth away under his cloak, take it and hide it away and keep it as a symbol of…something. Something he can't even put to words, but which aches the same way as all of those old dreams of repairing a ship and flying it to Iridonia.

“You like the blue one?” he manages after a moment, though the words are rough. It’s a distraction more than anything, a way to shift the woman’s attention from him, but it works. She glances back at the hangings, looking up at them for a moment, and then reaches out. Her fingertips just miss a length of jewel-green fabric.

“This one,” she says. “I like the blue, but this one reminds me of the fields of my homeworld.”

Savage looks down at her for a moment, then at the bright cloth still in his grip, and breathes out through his nose. Reaches up, and as gently as he can tugs the length of fabric down, letting it slither off its rack and right into her hands.

“Oh, thank you,” the woman says, surprised. She smiles, though, and lifts the cloth, folding it over her hands several times like she’s checking how see-through it is. “Isn't it lovely?”

“It is,” Savage says, and the words feel awkward in his mouth. He looks down at the orange fabric, and thinks about draping it over Feral’s head the way he used to do with blankets he was mending, hiding his horns and covering his face. A handful of times, when he was small, Feral would wrap himself in them and pretend to be a witch, but—Brother Viscus caught him once and punished him, and he never did it again.

Feral wrapped them _both_ in blankets, after the first time a Nightsister picked Savage to bed. He cocooned them in every blanket they owned, sat on the floor with him and talked for hours until his voice was hoarse, distraction and sympathy and unwavering support, and Savage had rested his head on Feral’s shoulder, had curled an arm around him and not been afraid of breaking him with a moment’s carelessness.

“You're thinking of someone,” the woman says, quiet, and when Savage glances over at her, she’s watching him with clever eyes, expression just a little sad. Beneath the sadness, though, there’s something that’s sharp as knives and as steady as steel. “Who is it making you think of?”

Savage could reach out and grab her, fling her aside hard enough to break her spine. He could pull out his lightsaber and cut her down, and keep on his way. But—

The rage has retreated, for the moment. All he feels right now is regret, sharp and gutting.

He misses the rage. It’s easier to bear.

“My little brother,” he manages, rough. “I—he’s. Not here.”

“On Iridonia?” the woman asks gently. “Or on Dathomir?”

Savage stiffens, but before he can so much as move the woman raises her hands. “I know _of_ Dathomir,” she says quickly. “But I’ve never been there. And I know some men…leave.”

“Escape,” Savage says humorlessly. He drags a nail over the cloth, wonders why he’s still standing here. He’s meant to be gathering information, not…talking. “Some of us escape.”

“Escape,” the woman corrects quietly, but before she can say anything else, there’s a rustle. A hanging parts, and one of the natives, her hair burnished copper, leans out from the back of the store.

“Oh!” she says, abashed, as her eight eyes flicker from Savage to the woman. “You should have called for me, I'm so sorry.”

“It’s quite all right,” the woman says with a smile. “We were having fun looking at everything.” She holds up the green cloth, and asks, “May I buy this one?”

“Of course,” the owner says, pleased, and slides out into the main part of the stall. “Here, let me wrap it for you.”

The woman hands it over, and the owner folds it deftly, her extra limbs reaching out to grab paper and ribbon as she does. She wraps it up and ties it, then pauses, gaze sliding to Savage. “And that one as well?”

Savage freezes, hands going tight on the delicate, sunset-colored cloth. He can't say yes; all of their funds go to Maul’s efforts to win them more power, and something so frivolous won't amuse him. But—

“Yes,” the woman says firmly, and hands over a credit chip before Savage can even open his mouth to protest. “It doesn’t need to be wrapped. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , my lady,” the owner says, tucking the chip away. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine.” The woman dips in a near-bow, then turns and gives Savage a smile. “Shall we?”

Savage swallows, but when she steps away from the stall, he follows, not able to help his death grip on the orange cloth.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says gruffly.

“I know,” the woman says, keeping her eyes fixed ahead of her as she passes under a low arch and turns towards a wide stretch of grassy ground. The trees that line it are strung with streamers of cloth, bright and chaotic, and there are people walking, or seated in the shade. The woman turns down the wide walkway that cuts between the groves, and when Savage falls into step with her, not sure what else to do, she casts a look up at him. “I know what it’s like to miss someone, though. Reminders can be good.”

Savage doesn’t need reminders. He has too many as it is. But—he doesn’t protest, just looks down at the cloth, then folds it carefully and thinks he’ll slide it away under his cloak before he gets back to the ship. If it was a gift, Maul can't object to him keeping it, but…better not to flaunt it, even so.

“Is yours a reminder?” he asks, because he can feel the anger-edged grief that cuts through her. It’s not…quite what he feels, but there might be something similar to it.

The woman’s mouth tightens, and she looks down at her package, running her fingers over the pale paper. “Yes,” she says, and it’s steady despite the wry twist to her mouth. “But not the same way. I want to remember my homeworld, because I want to remember my purpose. Other things distracted me, and I don’t want to be distracted anymore.”

Savage watches her for a moment, taking in the straightness of her posture, the tilt of her chin. Something fierce, he thinks, but…not like a Nightsister. Or maybe a little like a Nightsister, but without the cruel edges. It’s still enough to make him uncomfortable, but…she’s been kinder to him already than any Nightsister would ever dream of being.

“You seem…decisive,” he says finally, and means it as something like a compliment, even if he can't think of a better way to phrase it.

The woman smiles wryly. “Do I?” she asks, and then, “What is your brother like? If you don’t mind telling me.”

Savage looks away, closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Kind,” he finally says. “He’s…a good warrior. One of the best in our village. But he was always happier building things. And he liked…little things. Finding bird nests. Sunsets.”

The woman’s eyes flicker to the cloth, and this time her smile is warmer. “It sounds like you love him very much.”

“Not enough to save him,” Savage says harshly, and almost clenches his hands, almost jerks, but—he’s still holding the cloth, and he doesn’t want to tear it.

For a long moment, the woman is silent. Then, quietly, she says, “Sometimes, we have to get ourselves out of bad situations before we can find the room in ourselves to worry about other people. It seems selfish, especially when it hurts those we love, but—we have to make sure we survive before we can save anyone else. Otherwise we won't be _able_ to save them.”

Savage’s breath rattles in his throat, and he comes to a sharp stop, not able to move. He feels stiff, like stone, like he’s frozen to the earth, and if he takes so much as a step he’s going to shatter into pieces.

The woman turns, facing him, and her expression is rueful, sad, but she’s still smiling. She reaches out, curving one small hand over Savage’s on the fabric, and says, “I'm sorry, it’s not the same at all. Forgive me.”

“No,” Savage manages after a moment. “I—it’s. All right.”

Is that where he went wrong with Maul? _Has_ he gone wrong with Maul? He sought him out as a way to give himself purpose, in the wake of Ventress’s abandonment and the Jedi hunting him down. He’d been desperate for that connection, for a brother he hadn’t murdered, but—

“I'm Padmé,” the woman says, and when Savage flicks a glance at her, she gives him a tip of her head that’s something like a bow. “I'm planning to walk here in the mornings, at sunrise, if you’d like to join me.”

Savage doesn’t offer his own name, doesn’t answer. Just nods, once, and turns on his heel, heading back the way they came with almost dazed steps, his head spinning, his chest aching. He doesn’t know how he’s feeling, or why, couldn’t name any of the emotions that want to strangle him at the moment, and—

He doesn’t want to. Looking into himself will only hurt, and he can't take it right now.

When he finally makes it back to the ship, staggering up the ramp and then into the darkened interior, Maul is seated at the table with holoprojectors and comm units scattered around him, sprawled out in his chair and brooding. As Savage hits the button to close the ramp, Maul turns his head, and in the dark his eyes glow gold as he looks Savage up and down.

“So what section of the city did you destroy?” he asks, sharp and viciously idle. “How much of the planet are we going to have to avoid because you couldn’t contain yourself this time?”

It’s hardly a new question. Maul thinks his rages are distasteful, unproductive, and he’s never made a secret of it. But right now the question cuts in ways Savage can usually ignore, and he wants to flinch, wants to turn away and walk right back out.

He doesn’t. A Sith isn't supposed to show weakness.

“None of it,” he says instead, curt, and stalks past Maul, heading for his bedroom. Sealing the door behind him is one little barrier that makes his next inhale come easier, and he closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out.

The fabric is still impossibly soft when he pulls it from beneath his cloak, and Savage carefully wraps it around his hands, then sinks down to sit on the bed. Pauses, eyes still closed, and then hunches forward, pressing it to his face.

When he opens his eyes, all he can see is Dathomir’s sunset, bright and burning.


	12. Chapter 12

This is stupid, and reckless, and Wolffe already regrets it, but—not enough to actually change his mind.

“Finally,” he says pointedly, directed more at Payback than Feral, and Payback undoes the last lead and steps back from the biobed, letting Feral slide down.

It’s mildly infuriating that Payback doesn’t even twitch. “If you're in that much of a hurry, don’t fracture his elbow in so many places next time, Commander,” he says, and catches Feral by the arm, entirely unnecessarily when he’s already steady on his feet.

“ _He_ fractured his elbow,” Wolffe retorts. “Aiming for my _head_.”

“Well,” Payback says mildly. “Given how hard your head is, I'm not surprised.” When Feral chokes on a guilty laugh, pressing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide it, he smirks. “You can laugh at him, sweetheart. Everyone does.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, unimpressed by the attempt. “Sure you don’t want to keep him another full day just to make my life harder?” he snaps.

“If I didn’t know there was a grav-ball game planned in one of the hangars, I would,” Payback says, unperturbed. “But since there _is_ , I'm going to need every bed available starting in about twenty minutes.”

Wolffe didn’t actually need to know that that’s taking place, and he grimaces, resigned to having to deal with the mess when he would really, really rather not. “Which hangar?”

“I have no idea,” Payback says with perfect sincerity, and when Wolffe gives him a look, he raises his hands. “Commander, if you pack thirty thousand supersoldiers used to constant movement, all on the highest-calorie diets a Human body can take, onto one ship and then expect them to _behave_ , there's no hope for you.”

Wolffe sighs, rubbing a hand over his good eye. “I could set them all to scrubbing down the ship,” he says sourly. “ _That_ would use up their energy.”

“They’d drown each other in their mop buckets. _Competitively_.” Payback chuckles at the face Wolffe pulls, then glances at Feral. “Come to me if you have _any_ lingering headaches, all right? Or if your arm starts hurting again. The scans look clean, but Zabrak bones are dense and sometimes it’s hard to spot things.”

“I will,” Feral says, rubbing lightly at his elbow. Wolffe looks, not quite able to help himself, and—there's a scar from the surgery, small but noticeable against the dusty orange of his skin.

He doesn’t look at the mark on Feral’s throat, dull red like an old burn again. Doesn’t want to think of it lit up and glowing, or what it’s meant for.

But what it’s meant for is something he has to think about, and especially now.

“You finally manage to get off your _shebs_ and mix up something that would knock out a Zabrak?” he asks Payback, who flicks a glance at Feral like he’s about to protest having this conversation in front of him. Wolffe doesn’t budge; Feral was kriffing _terrified_ of the Nightsisters controlling him, and knowing that Wolffe has a way to stop him can only help.

“Sure,” Payback says after a long moment. “Me and my copious amounts of free time, you know?” He turns away, crossing to his desk, and picks up a small case. “Medical’s short on modified blasters, though, so you’ll have to administer it the old-fashioned way.”

Wolffe catches the case and opens it, checking the hypos and cartridges inside. “They’ll work fast?” he asks, and doesn’t protest when Feral slips a few steps closer to look as well.

Payback glances between them for a second, then inclines his head. “Thirty seconds,” he says. “At most. A hell of a lot less if you can get it into his neck, but any body part will work.”

Wolffe glances up, meeting and holding Feral’s eyes. “I'm keeping them on me at all times,” he says, and it could be a threat, but from the way Feral’s posture eases just a little, he doesn’t take it that way.

“Thank you, Wolffe,” he says instead, and Wolffe nods curtly and pulls a hypo out, loading the cartridge with a few quick motions. There's a clip on the side, and he stows it in one of his pouches, ready to draw as soon as he needs it.

“Side effects?” he asks, because they won't _stop_ him from using the sedative, but it’s good to know what he’s getting into when he does.

Payback raises a brow, but answers wryly, “One hell of a hangover, mostly. A seizure, if you hit him with all six one after the other. But if you’re going that far, that’s probably the least of your problems.”

Wolffe snorts, tucking the case under his arm. “It won't come to that,” he says, and that’s a reassurance, too. “Done?”

“Twenty-four hours is enough even for me,” Payback jokes, and gives Feral a smile. “Don’t hesitate to comm me if you feel odd. Or like strangling our fine commander.”

Wolffe scoffs, shoving Feral towards the door. “Got your schedule yet?” he asks pointedly.

Instantly, Payback’s eyes narrow, and he folds his arms over his chest, expression losing about six shades of humor. “I did, _sir_.”

Wolffe grins at him, all teeth. “Tell Boost I said hello.”

Payback is about three seconds from using a sedative on _him_ , and it’s sweet. Wolffe doesn’t get one over on him often, and given Boost’s cheerful ruthlessness as a hand-to-hand instructor, this victory is _perfect_. Wolffe is smart enough not to rest on his laurels, though, and he’s careful about giving Payback his back as he steers Feral out of the medbay.

“Is there something wrong with training with Boost?” Feral asks as the doors slide closed. He pulls away a little, looking nervous, but—he’s been trapped in medical for a full day now, and suddenly being out of it in the aftermath of what happened has to be jarring.

“Only if you like being able to move afterwards,” Wolffe says dryly, and pauses in the hall. He took a bit of the time Feral was in surgery and deep under anesthetic to set things into motion, but he never left for more than a handful of minutes, warry of the Nightsisters latching on to Feral’s mind while he was unconscious, even though they didn’t seem able to before. The idea of just wandering away while Payback and the doctor were working, leaving them alone and vulnerable, had made his skin crawl.

Plo had stopped by, once, but he’s been in meetings all day about their strategy in the Ferra sector and couldn’t spare more than a few moments. Wolffe should have been with him, but he’d sent Sinker in his place as soon as his concussion was better, and doesn’t regret it.

He has a sinking suspicion that he knows who Fox’s assassin is, and all the pieces line up a little too well.

“There’s an extra bed in my quarters,” he says curtly, and turns, making for the lift. Feral follows, almost silent in his bare feet. They still haven’t gotten his boots back to him, and Wolffe thinks of the knives that were in them, the way Feral laughed about them, and has to grit his teeth. Separatist assassin. Not by _choice_ , though. Or—not _always_ by choice, maybe.

It probably shouldn’t feel like as big a difference as it does.

“Not…the brig?” Feral asks carefully, but a moment later his steps quicken, and he falls in beside Wolffe, rather than behind him. It eases some of the prickles tracing down Wolffe’s spine, and he breathes out.

“I told you, you're staying with me,” he says. “I'm not going to plant myself in the brig for however long it takes to deal with that mark—”

“ _Deal_ with it?” Feral’s voice cracks. “It’s—it’s _magic_ , it can't come off—”

Wolffe stops, turns. Fury is a hot thing, flaring up from embers that have been building for too long, and not just at Feral. He lashes out, grabs Feral by the collar and shoves him back, right into the wall with a thud, and Feral doesn’t flinch. He grabs Wolffe’s wrist, fingers tight around the seam between gauntlet and vambrace, and Wolffe can feel the brush of his skin like an electric shock.

“How do you _know_?” he snaps, right in Feral’s face, and Feral’s eyes widen. “Have you tried before? There are more Force-users in the universe than just the witches of Dathomir, and if you think I'm going to let a walking time bomb wander around my men and my general without at least _checking_ if there’s a way to fix things—”

“But I'm a _Sith_ ,” Feral protests, all sharp edges fit to cut. “What does it matter to you if I'm controlled or not?”

Wolffe breathes out through his nose. Reminds himself, grim, that Feral’s reaction to being accused of working with the people who destroyed the _Triumphant_ was regret and horror and dismay, and breathes in again. “Because you didn’t kill Sinker,” he says, dark, warning, and holds Feral’s gaze with intent. Tries to put what he means into his gaze if he can't manage to put it into words, and doesn’t know if he manages it. “Because you didn’t kill Ringer or any other others, so I like to _think_ you're not a complete waste of space and you _do_ have a conscience, even if you're choosing not to use it right now. If I wanted to play around with a Sep puppet, I’d go hunt down Grievous, but—”

He doesn’t say _you're different_ , even if the words are on the back of his tongue. Doesn’t _want_ it to be true, but also does, because Feral didn’t kill. He didn’t maim, didn’t torture, didn’t hurt, took care, was polite and kind and—

Different. Right up until the Nightsisters sank their fingers into his brain and turned him into a toy.

“Do you want to live with that mark on your neck?” he asks, and watches golden eyes darken for a moment before Feral looks away.

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” he says quietly.

“Maybe you don’t,” Wolffe says, unflinching, and when Feral slants a startled look at him, he snorts. “But what if you do?”

Feral’s expression twists, and he puts a hand up to the mark, covering it for a moment. “Then I want it,” he says, barely a whisper. “I just—where do I even _start_?”

He looks like he’s crumpling in on himself, pulling in and getting smaller. Wolffe grimaces, but tightens his grip on Feral’s tunic, hauls him away from the wall.

“Trust the general,” he says curtly. “He’ll contact Agen Kolar, who might know someone on Iridonia.”

Feral is still gripping his wrist, tighter now if anything, and he doesn’t let go even when Wolffe does. Looks down instead, then takes a breath, raises his head, and smiles.

“I've always wanted to see Iridonia,” he says, trying for something light, and for his sake, Wolffe ignores the way his smile seems to wobble.

“And if that doesn’t work,” Wolffe says, a warning, because it might not, “we try something else.”

Feral’s expression twists, and he lets go of Wolffe like he’s been burned, wrapping his arms around himself. “We,” he echoes, and Wolffe pauses, studying him narrowly.

“Plo Koon picked you up,” he says finally. “You're never going to escape that.”

“I tried to _kill_ him,” Feral protests. “ _Twice_.”

_No, you didn’t,_ Wolffe almost says, but he doesn’t at the last moment. Feral seems…touchy, as he is right now. Not fragile, maybe, but shaken.

“If you think that’s going to stop him,” he finally settles on, “I hit you in the head too hard.”

Thankfully, that makes Feral snort, and the curl of his arms around himself loosens. “You…really want to help?” he asks quietly, watching Wolffe, and Wolffe doesn’t let himself look away.

“You're an enemy,” he says. “But you didn’t kill my men, and with those assholes in your head, you're just a droid with a pulse. no one deserves that. We’ll help.”

Saying it outright feels a little too much like _I’ll help_ , like a promise Wolffe can't make, isn't sure he _wants_ to make. But—

Feral’s face twists, and he takes a step forward, then hesitates. Looks at Wolffe, and says, careful, “I want to hug you.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. Of _course_ Feral is a hugger. Of _course_ Wolffe got stuck with _another_ one. Reaching out, he hooks his fingers in Feral’s horns and tugs him in with one firm pull, and Feral comes gratefully, wrapping his arms around Wolffe’s chest and burying his face in his armor. With a sigh, Wolffe rubs his horns, skimming his fingertips over the smooth curves of them and avoiding the sharp tips, and—it’s fine. It is.

If he had Ventress in his brain, tugging him around like a puppet, he’d probably grab Sinker and Boost and never let go, honestly.

“You won't hurt anyone else,” he says, and that at least he can make into a promise.

Feral nods without lifting his head. “I trust you,” he says, and it cracks but Wolffe can hear that he means it. Breathes out, because Feral _shouldn’t_ , he’s a Sith and an enemy and yet—

“Oh my,” a very familiar deep voice says, absolutely kriffing _delighted_. “Am I interrupting something?”

Wolffe stiffens. “General,” he says, and of karking _course_ Sinker is right behind him, looking like he was just handed the keys to the Chancellor’s office. Feral lifts his head, and Wolffe gets a hand on his shoulder and practically peels Feral off of him, quickly turning to face his general. “Sir, you're—”

“I was looking for you, Wolffe,” Plo says merrily, and he’s practically _beaming_ behind his rebreather. “To pass along the notes from the last meeting, of course.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrow. He has a datapad. Plo _knows_ that. There's no reason for Plo to hunt him down in person to hand that kind of thing over. Before he can actually say that, though, Plo is stepping sideways to put himself right in front of Feral, and the crinkle of his eyes is something kind as he says, “Feral, my dear. You look much better.”

Feral hesitates, gaze flickering from Plo to Sinker and then to Wolffe. “Thank you,” he finally says. “I—I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not at all,” Plo says gently. “I sent another message to Master Kolar, to see if he knows any way to lift a Nightsister’s mark, but he’s behind enemy lines at the moment and won't answer for a few days. Until then, Wolffe will take good care of you, I'm sure.”

Wolffe stubbornly refuses to let so much as a touch of heat into his face. “ _General_ ,” he says, and Plo laughs.

“You are a good man, Wolffe,” he says, and it’s a sharp-edged sort of faith that _burns_. Wolffe wants to close his eyes and look away, but he won't let himself. “I'm sure Feral will be safe with you.”

Feral being safe isn't the _point_ , Wolffe doesn’t say, just breathes out through his nose. “Of course, sir,” he manages, with all the dignity remaining to him, and gives Sinker a poisonous look. Because Sinker’s not a _complete_ idiot, he tries valiantly to rearrange his expression into something less obnoxious. The attempt fails, but at least he makes it.

With a chuckle, Plo offers Feral his hands, claws politely tipped down so they're not a threat. “Would you care to meditate with me again?” he asks. “In the morning, perhaps. I enjoy the company.”

Feral watches him for a moment, expression twisted. “Even though I tried to kill you?” he asks, quiet.

Plo closes the distance between them with a step, then catches Feral’s hands in a light grip. “If I may say it, you were far more of a threat to me at the comm tower, Feral,” he says gently. “This was hardly an attempt at all, considering what I know of your skill.”

“I don’t—” Feral hesitates, then closes his mouth. Swallows, and says, “Thank you, Master Koon. I would…like to meditate with you.”

Plo squeezes his hands, then leans in, and—it’s not a Keldabe kiss, Wolffe thinks with a frown, watching Plo touch his forehead to Feral’s. Too high, for one thing, and too soft. But then, if Wolffe was giving a Keldabe kiss to someone with horns, he’d want to be careful, too. It seems to mean something to Feral, too, because he closes his eyes, some of the tension slipping from his body, and tips his head down a little. With another Zabrak, he’d be tangling their horns, Wolffe realizes.

“There _will_ be a way to remove that mark,” Plo says soothingly. “You needn’t worry about that, Feral.”

“Thank you,” Feral says, a little choked, and lifts his head. Steps back, rubbing his hands over his face, and Plo smiles. He rests a hand on Feral’s shoulder for just a moment, then sweeps past him, touching Wolffe’s as well before he’s gone.

No mention of the meeting, Wolffe thinks a little sourly. Which means he was lurking for another reason entirely. As Wolffe probably should have known, honestly.

“What do _you_ want?” he demands, giving Sinker a narrow look.

Perfectly unrepentant, Sinker raises his hands. “Nothing with you, Commander,” he says, and smiles at Feral. “Hey, Feral. How’s your head?”

“How is yours?” Feral counters, and that tension is bleeding back into him, tangled with guilt.

Sinker just snorts. “Not as badly bruised as my pride,” he says calmly. “I thought I was better in close quarters than that.”

Feral hesitates for just a moment, then smiles wanly. “My brother is bigger than me,” he says. “We grew up wrestling. I—apparently even the Nightsisters couldn’t take that away.”

One brow rising, Sinker looks him over. “Bigger than you as in more muscular, or taller?” he asks.

“Yes,” Feral says, with a touch of wry humor.

“Ouch,” Sinker says. “At least all of my _vode_ are mostly the same size. No wonder you're scrappy.”

It does explain a fair amount, Wolffe decides. Feral’s decently tall, admirably muscular, but a clone in full armor is always going to outweigh him. Despite that, he managed to toss Wolffe around more easily than just being a Zabrak would account for. With a snort, he crosses his arms over his chest, then says, “The foot thing. Tossing people off you with a foot in their chest. You learned that with him?”

“He would collapse on top of me,” Feral says, with all of a younger sibling’s concentrated indignation. He holds out his arms, miming someone going spread-eagled, and says, “Every time, he’d say he was tired and overcome and just _flatten_ me.”

“What a bastard,” says Wolffe, who has definitely never done anything similar when wrestling with Rex.

Sinker eyes him disbelievingly. “I think I know a guy who would benefit from learning that from you,” he tells Feral, and when Wolffe scowls at him, he snorts. “Sorry, Commander, but between you and Commander Cody, Captain Rex needs all the help he can get.”

“He’s learning valuable life lessons every time we train together,” Wolffe says, unrepentant, and gives Feral a look up and down. Considers for a moment, and then says, “I train in the main gym in the mornings. You’ll have to come, but working out is optional.”

Feral blinks at him. “You’ll let me?” he asks, and then quickly raises his hands. “I want to! But…is it safe?”

Wolffe breathes out through his nose, then nods curtly. “I have the tranqs. If your head starts hurting, you tell me immediately. Even if you think it’s just a regular headache.”

For a long moment, Feral looks down at the floor. Then, with a breath, he closes his eyes, and says quietly, “I don’t know if _any_ of them have been regular headaches since Mother Talzin woke me up.”

After a second, Wolffe steps forward, reaches out. He makes it slow and deliberate, so that Feral sees it coming, and he presses his thumb to the broken stub of Feral’s horn, then meets his eyes. “You know,” he says, and—it’s a relief not to have to figure out how to put his suspicions into words, but it still makes his stomach twist a little to see the pain that crosses Feral’s face.

“That Mother Talzin was using me as her assassin?” Feral asks quietly. “Yes, I know. I don’t remember any of it, but—how else would I break my horn and not notice?”

Sinker sucks in a sharp breath, the pieces connecting for him as well. “Commander, the assassin on Sekind—”

“I had a headache on the trip to the comm tower,” Feral says, close enough to a confession. “I didn’t think it was anything to worry about.”

Wolffe doesn’t answer, but—he probably owes Fox a drink. Or ten. Unfortunately, Fox is just about as good a shot drunk as he is sober, so it won't significantly increase Wolffe’s chances of survival.

“I'm going to bed,” he says curtly, and gives Sinker a look. “I assume you sent me the notes?”

“Sure,” Sinker says, easy, and smiles. Wolffe _hates_ that smile. “Scheduled to be delivered to your pad when you get up. You're welcome.”

“You and Payback need to stop conspiring,” Wolffe growls, but he’s used to being hounded about his sleeping schedule by now.

Sinker snorts. “If Payback and I were conspiring, we’d drug your dinner,” he says without shame. “Good night, Feral. And don’t worry about what happened. No one blames you.”

Feral’s smile is still a shadow of what Wolffe saw before, but at least it’s there. “Good night, Sinker,” he says, which isn't any sort of agreement with the words. Sinker notices that, because he’s not an idiot, but he doesn’t argue, just reaches up to skim a hand over Feral’s horns and then heads down the hall. Feral turns to watch him go, and Wolffe gives him until Sinker has turned the corner before he heads for the lift.

Quiet footsteps follow a moment behind, and Feral slips in just as the doors are closing, tucking himself back in the corner. Wolffe ignores him, stripping off his gauntlets and rolling his neck with a grimace as the floor count rises. When the lift finally comes to a stop, he strides out, down a side hall and then up a flight of stairs. Plo picked his cabin for the ease of converting it to a Kel Dor’s native atmosphere, and Wolffe picked his for proximity to his general.

Knowing Plo is on the other side of the hall is a relief, especially right now, and Wolffe spares a glance at the door as he keys in his own code. The privacy light isn't on, but then, Plo needs less sleep than a Human, so he tends to work an extra shift. Back when he was a shiny, Wolffe tried his damndest to keep up, and nearly run himself into the ground doing so. Now the second part of the shift usually falls to Boost or Sinker, and Wolffe has grudgingly come to accept that he has normal Human limits, genetically engineered supersoldier or not.

When Wolffe steps into his quarters, the change is a little jarring. They’ve been his personal space for almost a year, and now someone’s come in and rearranged them. There's a second bed, pushed up close to his at a right angle, a heavy new lock on the door, a stack of fresh clothes that are _definitely_ Plo's doing. Jedi robes, Wolffe thinks, eyeing them, but dyed dark, to the same color that Skywalker usually wears. That’s…not subtle.

“Oh,” Feral says, and there's something like relief in his voice as he follows Wolffe inside. When Wolffe glances back, though, his eyes are on the lock that graces the door. “You can…keep me in?”

Wolffe doesn’t point out that that lock will stop a Force-user for about as long as binders do. “Keep _us_ in,” he corrects, and drops his gauntlets on the table, then starts stripping off the rest of his armor, quickly and neatly, setting the paired pieces down in the order he’ll need to put them on. Feral takes one look at the blacks that are revealed as he pulls off his chestplate and jerks his eyes away with a stifled sound of embarrassment, turning to the bed and the provided clothes, touching them lightly before quickly sorting through them.

“Thank you,” he says determinedly, without looking up. “For—for finding a way that I can…”

_Stay alive_ , he doesn’t say, but Wolffe hears it clearly all the same.

“I wake up early,” he says instead, and when Feral glances at him, he raises a sardonic brow at him. “Hope you don’t mind mornings.”

Feral pulls a face. “As long as there's tea,” he says halfheartedly, but doesn’t otherwise protest, sitting down on the bed. When Wolffe tugs the zipper on his blacks down, his skin goes three shades darker, and he determinedly keeps his eyes fixed on his hands as he undoes his sashes.

A little amused, Wolffe turns away, giving him privacy, and tosses the covers of his bed back. It’s early to just go to sleep, and he’d been planning to read through Sinker’s notes, but—

Well. It’s been a long few days since the comm tower.

“Lights at fifteen percent,” he orders, and the lights drop instantly, leaving the room in shadow, even if it’s not completely dark. “Lower them later if you want— _kriffing hells_.”

Luminous in the darkness, entirely unnerving, golden eyes blink at him. “What is it?” Feral asks, mystified.

Wolffe closes his own eyes, trying to get his heartbeat under control. “Nothing,” he says. “Just—nothing. Night.”

“Good night,” Feral says, still bemused, and Wolffe thumps back against his pillows, tossing an arm over his eyes. This is going to take some getting used to.


	13. Chapter 13

Feral dreams of green lights and whispers and a terrible devouring darkness, eating its way through his mind until there's nothing left.

Maybe, given that, it’s no wonder that he wakes with a scream trapped in his throat.

Desperate, gasping, he fights his way out of tangling blankets and throws himself back, colliding with the wall with a loud thud as he throws his hands up, trying to fight off any trace of Mother Talzin’s magic. There's no green mist, though, no mocking-sweet laughter. Feral opens his eyes to low light and a mostly-bare room, all metal and clean lines, and can't tear his eyes away from Wolffe’s armor, stacked neatly on the table.

Wolffe, he thinks, and drops his head back against the wall, hearts still racing. Wolffe is the shape on the other bed, still and silent, and Feral can feel the twist of his dreams, something almost as unsettled as Feral’s. There's a darkness to them, an anger that’s only just blunted by the weight of sleep, and pain. Remembered pain, harsh and unfaded with time, and Feral can't help but think of Wolffe’s words in the hallway. It was almost a confession of what Ventress did to him, except for how he said it. No shame, no hesitation, just a belligerent sort of stubborn refusal to bend even in the face of a Nightsister.

Feral can't quite imagine what that’s like. Not _well_ , at least. The Nightsisters have always been there, have always been the greatest threat and the most implacable masters. Feral has seen what becomes of Nightbrothers who try to run, or worst of all, the Nightbrothers who refuse to serve them.

Choice isn't a part of a Nightbrother’s life. Feral has never had any illusions about that.

For a moment, Feral considers waking Wolffe, but—the dreams aren’t _actively_ upsetting him yet. They’re just dark, and Feral doesn’t want to wake him and risk alarming him. Better to just stay where he is and hope they settle on their own.

Breathing out, Feral curls up, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his cheek on his knees. His heartbeat is still too loud in his chest, and there's a ringing in his ears that has more to do with fear than an oncoming headache, but—he probably should wake Wolffe. Even if this doesn’t feel like Mother Talzin threading her fingers through his mind, it _could_ be. Feral hasn’t been able to remember any of the other times, only has suppositions and vague guesses and Wolffe’s certainty to go on, but he shouldn’t risk it. He doesn’t _want_ to hurt anyone. Especially not when he could have already killed Sinker so easily.

But Wolffe is already on the edge of nightmares, and he’s _tired_. If Feral wakes him, he won't get any more sleep, and he’s been awake for a day and a half already. He needs his rest.

Savage, Feral thinks ruefully, always got mad when Feral didn’t wake him up after he had a nightmare. He’d insist that Feral should always come to him, and wrap Feral up in his blanket, and pull him in to share his bed.

Last time Feral saw Savage, he was leaving with Maul for a mission, and he hadn’t so much as glanced back at Feral as he headed up the ship’s ramp. The time before that, Feral was training with Savage and Maul, and he’d failed miserably to even knock Maul back. Savage had been so disappointed, so disgusted with the showing that he’d slammed the door as he left, and Feral had felt tiny and terrible and shameful.

He’ll never be the Sith his brothers are. He can't channel hate and rage like that. And, knowing what those on the side of the Sith have done, he’s…conflicted.

All he wants is to keep his brothers safe, make sure that Savage and Maul keep each other even with the whole universe against them. It’s the least he owes Savage, as the one who enabled Savage’s change, and the least he owes Maul, who’s everything Savage needs right now when Feral can't be. He’s never really considered what _else_ might be a part of protecting them. not in the terms of thirty thousand clones dead in one day. But—

With a hiss of breath, a contained twitch, Wolffe opens his eyes. Feral lifts his head, watching him lie still for a long moment before he rolls over, thumps his pillow with a fist, and huffs out a breath. Looks over, and twitches again, then closes his eyes and groans. “Why the frack are you awake?” he demands.

“I keep dreaming about green light,” Feral says quietly. “Like I saw before the mark activated.”

Instantly, Wolffe’s eyes open, and he rolls up on one elbow, frowning. “Voices?” he asks sharply, and Feral hesitates.

“I think it was just a dream,” he says quietly. “But…”

“But,” Wolffe agrees grimly. He flicks a glance at the hypo next to his pillow, clearly considering, and Feral bites his lip.

“You should,” he says, and makes it as firm as he can. “Just in case.”

Wolffe grunts, but pointedly moves is hand away from the hypo. It’s like he’s doing it to be _stubborn_ , and Feral sits up, opens his mouth to protest, but Wolffe gives him a look before he can even get the words out.

“Payback had to synthesize this specially,” he says curtly. “I'm not wasting it when the supply is limited. Get over here.”

Feral blinks at him, caught off guard. “Get…where?” he asks cautiously.

Wolffe rolls his eyes, like Feral’s being unreasonable, and jerks his head. “Grab your blanket. Get over here. If you move, it will wake me up.”

Feral stops short, one foot on the floor, hand already tight around the blanket. “That seems like a _terrible_ idea,” he says, eyeing Wolffe. “I could kill you before you even realized.”

Wolffe snorts, entirely unimpressed. “There was plenty of warning last time,” he says. “And no matter how powerful the witches are, they would have grabbed you immediately if they could have. I’ll notice.”

“Why take the chance?” Feral protests, but when he goes to sit back down on the bed, Wolffe leans out, quick as a snake, and grabs the edge of his blanket. He hauls it back, tossing it over himself, and then settles back, staring at Feral in obvious challenge.

Feral glares back. “That’s not _fair_ ,” he says. “I just want to make sure I don’t _murder_ you.”

“You won't,” Wolffe says blandly. “Now are you going to sit there and freeze or are you going to get under the karking blanket?”

Feral _should_ stay where he is, just to show that he has more sense than Wolffe. But…it’s cold, and Feral doesn’t have a shirt, just thin sleeping pants. His elbow is already aching in the cold, and there's a shiver starting in his muscles that makes him absolutely sure he won't manage to hold out for long.

“What if I told Payback you wouldn’t use his hypos?” Feral says, a last-ditch attempt at a bargain, even if he’s already fairly sure that it’s not going to work.

And, as expected, Wolffe just snorts. “Payback’s not in favor of drugging you unnecessarily any more than the general would be,” he says, and looks Feral over for a long moment, silent. Then, deliberately, he says, “Move your _shebs_. I'm tired.”

Feral opens his mouth to point out that Wolffe being tired is a good reason not to put himself in danger, then pauses. Closes it, worrying at his bottom lip with sharp teeth, and then slides out of the cot, crossing to Wolffe’s bed. Without saying anything, Wolffe rolls over, leaving half the bed for him, and settles on his side against the wall. Feral can see the way he’s watching, his narrowed eyes and the set of his mouth, and has to close his eyes.

He’s never shared a bed with anyone except for Savage, and this is…different. Impossibly different, in a way that makes his stomach flip, but he takes a breath and grabs the edge of the blanket, cocooning himself in it just as much for how it will make it harder to move as to escape the cold. Wolffe doesn’t protest, just lies there as Feral carefully fits himself onto the edge of the bed, and then very deliberately puts his head down on the pillow and closes his eyes.

“Don’t move or I’ll stab you,” Wolffe warns, and Feral almost wants to try it, but he swallows and nods, hunkering down into the blankets and closing his eyes.

“This is still a bad idea,” he says, maybe a little grumpily, and he can't see Wolffe’s face, but he’s fairly certain he rolls his eyes.

“A bad idea is you ignoring those dreams,” Wolffe retorts. “Go the hell to sleep.”

Feral huffs, but—just the fact that Wolffe knows and is prepared is a relief, even if he’s going about it in a reckless way. He wriggles back a little more, away from the edge of the bed, and then closes his eyes, trying to relax. There _was_ warning last time Mother Talzin took him over, and Wolffe is a soldier. If anyone has a chance of noticing something happening, it’s him.

In the darkness, Feral can hear Wolffe breathing, low and steady. Not asleep yet, though, and he breathes in, breathes out. Remembers Wolffe’s face in the hallway, the glow of his cybernetic eye, the scar that cuts across it. Ventress did that. Ventress put a mark on him just because she could, almost _killed_ him just because she could.

Ventress seems to treat the clones like Nightbrothers. Feral wonders if she’s just as amused by killing them as she was by killing the clan leaders in her tests.

“My oldest brother is the one who broke my neck,” he says, so quite it’s barely audible. “The Nightsisters were controlling him. He tried to resist, too, but Ventress slapped him. And then he couldn’t stop any more.”

There's a long moment of complete silence, heavy and loud. Then, rough, Wolffe huffs, and there's a rustle of blankets. A hand finds Feral’s shoulder in the darkness, tightens. Another hand tangles in his horns, then pulls, and Feral slides just a little bit closer, into the bulk of Wolffe’s body. The blankets are between them, but Feral can feel skin at the edge of Wolffe’s shoulder, an electric brush as Wolffe lets him settle there.

“The Nightsisters can get karked,” Wolffe says darkly, and Feral almost wants to laugh. Almost wants to slide closer and hug Wolffe again, bury his face in his chest and just hang on for a little while. Maybe it’s not what he was looking for Wolffe to say, but that’s fine, because he’s not sure _what_ Wolffe was supposed to say to that. But—it’s a relief to hear, a shock like the words are still forbidden, even here and now.

“Just not with a Nightbrother,” he says, the weakest attempt at a joke he’s ever made, but Wolffe huffs regardless, rubs his thumb over Feral’s horns, and lets out a breath.

“Not with a Nightbrother,” he agrees, and it feels like permission for Feral to relax, to press his face into the second pillow with a sound of amusement. Wolffe’s thumb slides down his horn, brushing his scalp, and Feral shivers involuntarily but doesn’t protest. It feels good. Not quite soothing, but maybe something close, with a prickle like static behind it.

He wants to say thank you to Wolffe. It feels like he _should_ , after putting that revelation on him. But Wolffe seems unbothered, still steady, still calm, and that makes it seem like less of a necessity. That’s a relief, too, in a way. Feral doesn’t know why, but—enough that it is, right now.

He closes his eyes, then turns his head a little further into the pillow, careful of his horns. Wolffe’s hand hasn’t moved, fingers pressed to the base of his horns, tangled there, just resting. It’s not the way another Zabrak would touch them, but—Feral likes it. Wolffe clearly doesn’t mind it, either, going by how he keeps doing it.

There's no green light swimming behind his eyelids right now, and while Feral doesn’t have much hope of things staying that way, at least for this moment, it feels like everything is holding.

“Taking a field trip, Senator?” a bland voice asks just as Padmé puts her hand on the door.

That flicker of _caught_ never changes, whether she’s seven or twenty-three, Padmé reflects wryly, but turns to face the man at the edge of the entryway, watching her with narrowed eyes. “Good morning, Commander,” she says politely, and meets his gaze without hesitation. She’s not sneaking out, technically. The government of Sekind gave her full permission to move around freely. “I was just going out for a walk.”

Fox doesn’t look impressed. “Senator, there's an assassin on this planet who just killed a friend of yours. I think you should stick close.”

Padmé doesn’t protest that the senator from Sekind wasn’t any sort of friend; they shared a goal of ending the war, but that was as far as it went. “Staying in a locked room is just as much of a risk as walking on a public road, going by what happened to Kai Av’Lya.”

Fox frowns, looking her up and down. The traveling gown is lighter than most of her dresses, nearly-sheer cloth in enough layers that it looks hard to move in but is actually fire-resistant and almost impossible for a vibroblade to cut through smoothly. Padmé knows how to look harmless, or like a victim; that hardly means she is.

“Commander,” she says politely, and leans down, hitching up the hem of her skirt. Fox goes stiff, but before he can even open his mouth, Padmé slides her favorite blaster out of the holster strapped to her thigh and flips it around, offering it to him grip-first.

She’s just in time to catch his flinch as she looks up, the aborted half-step back he takes like he’s expecting the barrel to be pointed right at his bare face.

Padmé freezes, not entirely sure how to react. She’s used to other senators wincing when she gets up to speak, or rolling their eyes, but she can't remember ever seeing someone flinch back from her before. _Especially_ not someone like Fox, trained and bred to be a soldier, the most decorated officer in the GAR. She doesn’t move, because retreat and advancement both seem like a bad idea right now, and Fox doesn’t, either. The lines around his eyes are tight, mouth a thin line, face a little bit paler than it should be, and—Padmé doesn’t know what to do with that.

For a long moment, Fox stares at her with narrowed eyes, and then, when she doesn’t move, he cautiously reaches out, taking the blaster. Glancing down at it, he flips it around, checking the freshly-cleaned barrel and then the make on the side, hefting it in his hand for a moment.

“Not a pocket pistol,” he says finally, and reaches out, setting it on the side table. Padmé doesn’t protest, just steps forward and takes it back. She busies herself with sliding it back into its holster, trying not to look at the sudden tension in Fox’s frame as she does. It reminds her, strangely, of the Zabrak she met yesterday, the way he treated her at first, like every motion was a threat in disguise.

“Naboo make,” Padmé says, and she refuses to be proud of weapons, even those made on her homeworld. “I have three vibroblades, too.”

One of Fox’s brows rises, and he considers her for another moment, then snorts quietly. “Sekind is a peaceful planet, my lady,” he says sardonically, and Padmé can't help but smile.

“Then walking through the market district won't be any problem,” she says. “I’ll be fine, Commander.”

Fox makes a deeply skeptical noise, eyeing her and then the door. “If you’ll wait for ten minutes, Senator, I’ll get you a contingent of guards.”

It’s almost dawn, and Padmé told the Zabrak she would be there at sunrise. She debates waiting, but—he seemed as though he needed help. Padmé wants to _be_ that help.

She couldn’t help Anakin. It’s harsh, to realize that now. All his worst behaviors, she enabled, or covered up, or simply pushed aside, and he got _worse_. If she’d tried, maybe she could have done something, but—

Well. Helping the Zabrak isn't the same thing. He doesn’t depend on her. He doesn’t _need_ her. And Padmé doesn’t want to be needed that way, desperately, until she’s not a person but an _object_ , something to be guarded and coveted and cherished but never respected in her own right. She’s better than that. She’s better than letting herself _become_ that.

“I was hoping to be at the park by sunrise,” she says, and Fox’s dark eyes narrow. “A friend might be there, Commander, that’s all.”

Fox’s mouth tightens, and he looks away for a moment, then lets out a rough breath and nods. “All right,” he says grimly, and raises his comm. “Thorn, Senator Amidala and I are leaving the premises. I’ll let you know when we’re on our way back. I want a full guard on Senator Organa at all times.”

“Yes, sir,” Thorn says immediately. “Want me to send troopers to meet you, Commander?”

Fox pauses, then casts another glance at Padmé. “No,” he says after a moment. “I think we’ll be fine. Eyes open.”

“We’ll be on it, Commander,” Thorn promises, and Fox cuts the connection, then nods to Padmé.

“Senator. When you're ready.”

“Thank you,” Padmé says, and resettles her gown, then adjusts her headpiece and opens the door. The air outside is cooler than she expects, and the streets are quiet, only a handful of people out in this neighborhood. Padmé can't pass for a handmaiden here as well as she can on Naboo, or even in most of the Core worlds, but she still looks more serving-woman than senator, and Fox’s presence doesn’t detract from that. His armor is bright and bold, but a single guard doesn’t make nearly the statement that a group would, and Padmé leads them into the city without more than a handful of sidelong looks.

“Have you ever been to Sekind before?” Padmé asks as they round a small fountain that’s shaped like a spider with four amphoras spilling water into a basin. She casts a sideways glance at Fox, but he’s scanning the street in front of them, wary and a little tense.

“No,” he says shortly. “The commander of the Guard doesn’t usually leave Coruscant unless the Chancellor does. These were…extenuating circumstances.”

The memory of Bail’s face when he got news of Kai’s death is all too clear a memory, and Padmé breathes out, tips her head. “You told Bail there were other assassinations that fit the pattern,” she says quietly. “So all of the senators were targeted for a reason.”

Fox doesn’t answer immediately, his mouth tight. “I think so. The commander of the 104th agreed, when I consulted him. That’s why he’s sending backup as soon as they arrive in the system.”

Padmé doesn’t know Jedi Master Plo Koon by much more than reputation, but what she _has_ heard is only good. He cares for his men, for the civilians on the planets he frees, and he’s always been cheerful when she’s encountered him. It makes her heart hurt, a little, to think of how different he is from Anakin, how Padmé managed to build an image of Anakin in her mind that was like that, a brave, noble Jedi who loved her so much he would have torn the galaxy apart for her, and how she believed that was a good thing.

Any mention of Jedi right now makes her think of Anakin, though. It probably shouldn’t be a surprise that her mind immediately goes to the comparisons between Anakin and others in the Order. It just—hurts, that’s all.

Anakin loved her, but he didn’t care about the things _she_ loved. It was always that way. She just wishes she’d seen it sooner.

“Do you know the squad that’s coming down?” Padmé asks, and forces herself to focus, forces herself to concentrate on the immediate. This is why she left Coruscant, why she insisted on coming with Bail as he investigated the death of one of his friends. She needs to be _doing_ something, something that helps the Republic she’s devoted her life to, and sitting in her apartment mourning the loss of a marriage that was never legal and never binding and never _right_ would do none of that.

“Sergeant Sinker,” Fox says. “His squad is one of General Koon's personal squads, and their record for extraction is almost perfect.”

Almost perfect is likely a good sign, even if this isn't an extraction. Padmé inclines her head in thanks, checking the sky as she does; the sun is on the edge of the horizon, a whiter sun than she’s used to on Naboo, but lovely. It spreads violet and white through the atmosphere, cuts through the darkness like a blade, and the warmth of it is a comfort against the morning breeze.

“I look forward to meeting them,” Padmé says, and means it. They need to find the assassin who killed Kai, and between the Guard’s experience solving such things and Bail’s ability to smooth over red tape and bureaucratic hurdles, Padmé has hope that they’ll be able to at least identify who the killer is, and who they were working for. The more space the Guard has to focus on that, with the task of guarding Bail and Padmé left to the 104th, the better.

There's a momentary hesitation, and then a huff. “We have contingency plans,” Fox says sardonically. “In case General Skywalker shows up. You’ll need to keep a guard with you even then, Senator—”

Padmé doesn’t let herself flinch, doesn’t waver. “Anakin won't be joining us,” she says evenly. She made it _very_ clear that he wasn’t welcome, and commed Obi-Wan just to be sure that someone who can usually control Anakin knows that they're no longer together. Obi-Wan took the revelation of their relationship calmly enough that Padmé is absolutely certain he knew all along, but he also took her warning about Anakin getting more…obsessive and possessive with less immediate belief than she would have preferred. Passing on the warning is all she can do now, though. She’s no longer part of Anakin's life. She _can't_ be.

Fox pauses again, clearly a little surprised, and then nods sharply. “I’ll shift the plans,” he says, and when Padmé glances at him, he smiles. It has a lot of teeth. “If you don’t want him around, Senator, he won't be.”

A flicker of warmth curls in Padmé’s chest, and she can't help but smile back, a little crooked, a little tired. “Thank you, Commander,” she says, and reaches out, laying a hand on his arm. “I appreciate your efforts.”

Fox looks down at her hand like he’s never seen it before, like he’s not sure what to do now that she’s touched him. Padmé doesn’t jerk her hand off, though part of her wants to. She just squeezes gently, feeling the press of his vambrace, smooth beneath her fingers, and then lets go gently, though she doesn’t step away.

“It’s our duty, Senator,” Fox says after a moment, and looks away.

“I can still thank you for it,” Padmé points out, and catches sight of a huge figure beneath a tree festooned with spun-silk streamers. This time, her smile comes easier, and she heads for the Dathomirian with quicker steps. He’s seated on the ground, hood up, head bent over a container of one of the local specialties, sugar spun out into a delicate web and knitted into intricate shapes. The tug of his fingers over the strands is hesitant, like he’s reluctant to break the shape into pieces, and it’s the same as yesterday, with the fabric. He was so careful, and that was the first thing that struck Padmé. The way he held the cloth, so delicate despite his size, and the look on his face as he stared down at it, pained and lost.

After that, there was no way she could _not_ speak to him, even just for a few moments. And—it was good. A reminder. There are bigger problems in the galaxy than Padmé being young and stupid and too romantic and falling in love with a man who was wrong for her.

She hopes he can find his brother. She hopes that more than anything in the world. He was so careful, and so sad, and he deserves to be happy and free somewhere far from Dathomir, with his family beside him.

“You’re here,” she says as she approaches, and the Zabrak lifts his head, eyes glowing gold in the shadows. Padmé doesn’t let it give her pause, and smiles warmly at him. “I was hoping you would be.”

The Zabrak hesitates for a moment, gaze flickering from her face to her empty hands, and then he sets his sweet aside and rises to his feet, picking up a small box as he does.

“Here,” he says, shoving it at her. “For the cloth yesterday. I won't be in your debt.”

Padmé blinks, but reaches out to take the box. It’s small, though larger than it looked in his palm, and plain but finely crafted. When she lifts the lid, it’s to the sight of a necklace on a bed of blue velvet, the simple teardrop stone the same deep, verdant green as the cloth she bought. Startled, Padmé brushes her fingers over it, and…it’s warm.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly, and curls her hands tight around the box. Not a romantic gift. Not an attempt as a bribe. Just…a gesture between two people who connected, even if it was just for a moment. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”

The Zabrak stares at her for a moment, then huffs, tipping his head. “Good,” he says, and then, “The fields on your homeworld—they're that green?”

“Yes,” Padmé says, and then carefully frees the necklace from its cushion. The golden chain shimmers in the light of dawn, and Padmé crouches down to place the box at her feet, then carefully clasps it around her throat. “Exactly this green. They go on for kilometers, hills as far as you can walk in a day.”

The Zabrak is watching her carefully, something wary in his face, but he takes a step closer and reaches out. Padmé raises her head, holding still as he taps a finger against the stone.

“It has an energy signature,” he says, rough. “You get into too much trouble. So people can find you.”

Indignation flares, roughly equal to her amusement. Padmé makes a sound of offense and pulls back a step to give him a stern look. “I don’t get into trouble, thank you.”

One corner of his mouth curves, just slightly. “You do. You approach strangers without noticing they look dangerous.”

There's a quiet snort, and Padmé turns, looking at Fox just as he quickly looks away. “ _Commander_ ,” she says, a little indignant, and—

There's a sharp breath behind her, a step. Suddenly, the Zabrak is looming over her, gaze fixed on Fox, and he says, “You're a _clone_ —”

“Of course he is,” a low, dark voice says, and a figure in dark robes splits off from the shadows under the trees. Another Zabrak, his red skin marked with black, and this one Padmé knows. She jerks back, but before she can get more than a step away the red Zabrak is right in front of her. A hand closes around her arm, hauling her forward, and Fox _growls_ as he lunges—

With a thunderous snarl, the other Zabrak slams into him, tackling him to the ground with one brutal blow, and tears the blaster out of his hand. Padmé twists, slamming her foot into the ankle of the man holding her, but her boot clangs against metal and the man doesn’t flinch. Fear surges, and she goes for her blaster automatically, but a hand catches her wrist, another hand locks around her throat, and the red Zabrak spins, slamming her right up against the tree with a crack.

Padmé doesn’t cry out as she hits, locks the sound behind her teeth and swallows it, and instead glares right into the red Zabrak’s eyes. “I _remember_ you,” she spits.

Darth Maul smiles, lean and cruel as he leans in. “Queen Amidala. A pleasure to finally meet you face to face.”


	14. Chapter 14

Fury is a hot thing, sharp and bright in her throat. The weight of the knife in her boot is a temptation, too, even though Padmé knows her own skills, knows the chances that anything good can come of this.

“Without a lightsaber between us?” Padmé retorts, though she wishes she had one herself right now.

That smile doesn’t waver, and the look in Darth Maul’s eyes is almost mad as he picks up the green stone the other Zabrak just gave her, twisting it between his fingers. “I see you met my brother, Savage. A charming monster, isn't he?”

Padmé kicks him, shoves forward, drives an elbow towards his diaphragm even as she drops and grabs for her vibroblade. The hiss of it is enough to make Maul twist, and she just misses opening his stomach from top to bottom as he retreats. Padmé surges up, and _away_ is the only thought, more than revenge, more than any belief she can face a Sith. Maul is a Force-user, has almost beaten Obi-Wan before, and if she doesn’t get away—

Sabé is going to kill her for this, even if Maul doesn’t kill her.

Maul makes a sound of offense as Padmé lunges sideways, turns to follow, but Padmé doesn’t go far. She puts space between them, the route back to the mansion they were granted familiar even if she’s never had to run it before. Sekind is a place of narrow streets and lots of twisting back alleys, and if she can reach them, if she can get that far away—

There's a snarl, a cry, and Savage rises, dragging Fox up by the throat and lifting him clear off the ground. One of Fox’s arms is dangling uselessly, and he struggles, kicks at Savage, claws at the huge hand holding him. Padmé catches sight of him, the way Fox’s face contorts, and feels a wrench in her chest that’s almost gutting.

In the same moment, Maul chuckles. He steps right into the space between them, unhesitating, and there's a smirk on his face, something small and cruel and full of a kind of victory that makes Padmé want to put her blade through his throat.

“How bold of you, Queen Amidala,” he says, low and vicious. “Wandering an unfamiliar world with only one guard. What if something were to happen to him?”

Padmé swallows, looking from Fox’s face to Savage’s. There's no hit of the grief that was just there, none of the quiet humor that he showed a moment ago. Just rage, something dark and vicious and ruthless that makes Padmé’s blood run cold.

“No,” she says, and it rings in her ears. “Let him go. Put him down.”

“Orders? But you aren’t a queen anymore, my lady.” Maul circles her with light steps, and Padmé hates his smile more than anything else in the galaxy at that moment. “There's no one here who will listen to you without you…surrendering something in return.”

He’s not even subtle. Padmé flicks another glance at Savage, but he’s staring at Fox, and there's something in his face that she can't read, an edge of darkness that makes her skin prickle.

If she doesn’t do something, he’ll kill Fox. Regardless of what kind of connection they had, regardless of the moments between them, he’ll do it. Of that, Padmé has no doubt.

“Run,” Fox chokes out, clawing at Savage’s fingers, but Savage just tightens his grip, lifts Fox higher, and Padmé’s heart flips in her chest. Knows what she _should_ do, as a senator, but—by rights she shouldn’t even _be_ here. This is Bail’s investigation, and she’s the reason Fox is even in danger, when she should have just stayed in the mansion and kept her head down.

She drops her vibroblade, steps away from it and raises her hands. Meeting Maul’s eyes, she says, “Put him down, stop hurting him, and I won't fight.”

Maul smiles. “A noble gesture, Queen Amidala,” he murmurs, and then says, “Savage. Let the good commander breathe.”

For a long, long moment, Savage doesn’t move. He’s still staring at Fox, at his own hand around Fox’s neck, and it’s as if he doesn’t hear Maul. Fox’s struggles are weakening, but Savage isn't loosening his hold, isn't so much as twitching, and fear flickers in Padmé’s chest, fear and dismay, and she takes a step—

“Brother,” Maul says, a sharp whip-crack of a word.

Savage blinks, like he’s coming awake. He opens his hand, dropping Fox in a heap at his feet, and Fox hits hard, coughing. Hauls himself up, reaching for his blaster—

“Easy, clone,” Maul says, and his hand curls around Padmé’s shoulder. “Your charge has put herself in a rather vulnerable position for you. Surely you won't waste that.”

Fox freezes, breath hissing from between his teeth. His gaze flickers from Padmé to Maul to Savage, and he slowly, deliberately raises his good hand.

Padmé tips her chin up, doesn’t let herself waver even if she wants to curse and fight. “You won't get anything from Naboo for my life,” she says evenly, and when Fox stiffens, she breathes out. “No one will give you anything for me.”

Maul makes a thoughtful sound, circling her. “That isn't precisely true, is it? Skywalker is very fond of you, little queen,” he says, low. “And Skywalker is Kenobi's weak spot in every way. You’ve given me the perfect way to lure the person Kenobi cares about most into a trap.”

It’s petty. It’s petty and _stupid_ , but fury rises in Padmé’s chest. She’s not even being captured on her own merits, for all the things she’s done. Not even for her position as a senator. Just for Anakin. Just because of a man she loved despite herself, and despite all the warning signs.

“Anakin won't come for me,” she says, and meets Maul’s eyes, putting all of her conviction into the words. “Whatever was between us, I ended it.”

Maul pauses, like he’s finally been caught off-guard. “Ended,” he repeats, and frowns. “Sentiment will trip the Jedi—”

“Not this sentiment,” Padmé says, and puts her conviction behind it, even if she’s not entirely sure it’s true. Anakin can sense emotion, and the odds that Maul can do the same are good.

And, thankfully, Maul doesn’t question her, just hisses out a low, angry breath and grabs her by the arm, hauling her forward. When Fox snarls, shoving to his feet like he’s going to launch himself at Maul, Savage grabs him, hand locking around his throat from behind. It makes Padmé freeze, and Fox go still, and Maul looks between them and _laughs_.

“Even if Skywalker is immune to sentiment in this, you are not, little queen,” he says, darkly amused, and pushes her forward. “Walk a ways with me, Senator. And if you behave yourself _very_ well, I will do my best to stop Savage from tearing the commander apart. His temper can be so unmanageable at times, though.”

Savage doesn’t react to the words, doesn’t so much as flinch. Just looms, like a droid waiting for a command, and he’s so different from the man Padmé met that she almost can't reconcile the change. Except…he had a thread of that reserve before, that distance. It took talking about his brother and Dathomir to break it. And now, with Maul in front of him, it’s back and even stronger than before.

Brother, Maul called him. Not the brother left on Dathomir, Padmé is willing to bet, and she wonders at the story there. Doesn’t _want_ to hurt Savage, even if it means getting Fox free, but—

She looks from Maul to Savage, then squares her shoulders and says, “If I come with you, you let Fox go. Otherwise, I’ll scream the whole way.”

Maul’s grip goes bruising-tight. “No,” he says, low, soft. “You will come with me either way, or I will slaughter my way through this town and take you regardless. And your commander will be the first to go.”

Padmé doesn’t think about her blaster, doesn’t think about her other knives. The same way she never thought too hard about the massacre of the Tusken Raiders when Anakin was nearby, she shuts the thoughts away somewhere deep down and lets her fear and rage bury them completely.

“That’s not how a negotiation works,” she says, as calm as she can make it. “If you want something from me, Maul—”

“Your belief that you have any say in what happens from this moment on is delightful,” Maul counters, and the look in his eyes makes Padmé’s words die on her tongue. “Brother, perhaps another broken wrist—”

Savage’s hand closes around Fox’s good arm, and Padmé can see that he’ll do it. Knows, without a moment’s doubt, that Savage won't hesitate.

“No,” she says, quick. “I’ll come.”

Savage pauses, eyes flickering from Fox, still and stiff and furious, to Padmé, and then to Maul. “Maul?” he asks.

Maul snorts, but passes a casual hand through the air, as if he’s inviting Padmé to precede him. “We shall see how well you can follow orders, my queen. Come.”

Deliberately, Savage lets go of Fox’s wrist, loosens his grip on his throat and drops his hand on his shoulder instead. “Be careful, clone,” he warns, and Fox grits his teeth, jerks his head in a short nod, and lets Savage push him forward to walk beside Padmé. He stumbles a step, and Padmé grabs his good arm, tucking herself in close to his side and holding him up. Fox’s breath comes harsh and low in his throat, but after a moment he lets his weight rest on her just a little.

There are bruises around his neck, a ring of red that’s already darkening, shaped just like a hand. Padmé looks at the marks, then turns her eyes ahead of them, setting her jaw.

Commander Thorn will notice they're gone. Will notice very soon, likely, though not soon enough. At the very least he’ll be able to alert Bail, and Bail will know how to set things in motion to find them. and—

“This is quite fortuitous,” Maul says, and his faint smile is sly, dark. “A captured senator is the perfect leverage to make a Jedi Master bend to my will.”

“Obi-Wan won't risk the Republic for one senator,” Padmé says evenly, and takes comfort in that much at least. She knows Obi-Wan at least will put his duty to the galaxy first, no matter what.

Maul hums. “Yes, but thankfully, I didn’t mean just Kenobi,” he says. “Perhaps Plo Koon can be convinced to exchange hostages, with your life on the line.”

Savage’s eyes flicker to Maul, something like relief breaking across his face, and when he turns back, there's a new conviction in the slant of his expression, a new firmness when he pushes Fox to walk just a little bit faster.

Padmé curls her fingers tighter into Fox’s armor, hanging onto him, and breathes out, trying not to let her fear show. She won't give Maul the satisfaction. But—

Her blaster is a familiar weight on her thigh, and she presses herself right up against Fox, letting him feel it. Dark eyes slide to her, then away, and Fox curls his hand into a fist, breathes in, lets it rasp out of his throat. He doesn’t react, but Padmé is absolutely sure he got the message.

“There you are,” Boost says, and drops down onto the floor of the training room next to Feral. “Our honored commander didn’t eat you in the middle of the night?”

Feral ducks his head, wanting to flush. He’d woken up with Wolffe practically on top of him, fast asleep, and Wolffe _had_ stirred as soon as Feral did, but—

He woke up to someone not Savage curled around him, breathing against his shoulder. It’s going to take some getting used to, that’s all.

“Wolffe was kind,” he says, which is an understatement, but the truth. Wolffe stayed with him last night when he wanted to fall apart, and there was nothing that made Feral feel like he was a burden, or unwelcome, or shameful. He’s been a burden for a long time, now, so it’s…a change. Feral doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

When he glances up, Boost is watching him, thoughtful as he leans back on his hands. Boost smiles at him, just a little, and then looks away, to where Wolffe has Warthog on the mats as they grapple. Feral keeps looking, too; it’s interesting, how the clones fight, and he’s never been this close without being the one fighting them. Wolffe is good, though Feral already knew that; Plo said he was one of the best in the GAR, and like this it’s obvious.

“He usually is,” Boost says, and winces as Wolffe slams Warthog down into the mat and pins him. “Well. Mostly.”

Feral laughs a little, crossing his legs beneath himself and leaning forward. “Is Payback coming?” he asks.

Boost snorts, shaking his head. “Disturb a medic’s beauty sleep? I'm not _that_ dumb. He’s coming after his shift.” He eyes Feral for a moment, then says, “Sinker told me to make sure you eat. Have you?”

Guilt flares, quick and hot, and Feral looks away, digging his fingers into the mats. He _hurt_ Sinker, and Sinker’s still being so kind to him. Just like Wolffe, if more overt about it. “Is he all right?” he asks quietly, watching Wolffe roll to his feet and offer Warthog a hand up. “I—he had a concussion—”

“Sinker has a hard head,” Boost says, unbothered, and grins at Feral. “Payback kicked him out of the medbay because of that, and he’s fine. On a mission, actually. He’s helping a squad of Guard members on the planet below.”

“Guard?” Feral asks curiously.

Boost hums. “Coruscant Guard. Clones who protect Coruscant and the Senate, and work with the diplomatic corps. One of Sinker’s batchmates ended up in the Guard, so he’s usually the one who gets to work with them. Most of them are bastards, but they're good at their jobs.”

He’s not saying _something_ , Feral thinks, flicking a glance at him. There's a thread of buried anger in Boost when he talks about the Guard, something low- and slow-burning, with an edge of helplessness. But he doesn’t have any idea how to push, how to say that, so he tucks the thought away to consider later and asks, “Are you going to train?”

“Yeah, once the commander is distracted,” Boost says dryly, clearly relieved to get off the previous topic. “He’s feeling a little ruthless today, and I’d like to keep my spine in one piece.”

Feral blinks, looking from Boost to Wolffe. He honestly can't see anything different about how Wolffe is fighting this morning. “Oh. You don’t want to train with him?”

Boost shoots him a disbelieving sideways look. “Not at the moment, no.”

“Coward,” Wolffe says, though he seems entirely unbothered by it as he approaches, stripping off his shirt. Feral has to quickly look away from defined muscle, scarred skin, sleek and dangerous. He’s never really thought about who he’s attracted to before, but…Wolffe is apparently very close to everything he likes.

“Only about you smearing me across the floor, sir,” Boost says, grinning. “How’s Warthog?”

“Whiny.” Wolffe looks unimpressed, tilting his head pointedly. “Come on, up.”

“With all due respect, Commander, _ha_ ,” Boost retorts, unmoving. “I’m waiting for the weights.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, turns—

“I’ll go,” Feral says, before he can even start to think better of it. As soon as the words are out, he freezes, but Wolffe is already turning to look at him, one brow rising, and there's no possible way Feral can take it back. He swallows, but pushes to his feet, meeting Wolffe’s narrowed eyes. “If—if you want a sparring partner.”

“We tend to call it a sacrifice,” Boost says, but he’s grinning again. “Thanks for falling on that vibroblade, Feral.”

Wolffe scowls at him, clearly unmoved, and then turns his gaze on Feral. “Your elbow?” he asks.

“I'm fine,” Feral insists, then pauses. “I—if you don’t want me to—”

With a snort, Wolffe folds his arms over his chest. Feral does his best not to look at thick biceps, at heavy pecs, at the broad line of Wolffe’s shoulders and the set of his mouth, but—it’s hard. It’s much, much harder than he would have expected.

“I said you had to come, but participation was optional,” he reminds Feral. “You’ve got the option to say yes.”

The last time Feral sparred with anyone, it was Savage and Maul, and it ended in disaster. Training by himself is always better, but—this is Wolffe, and with clones, rather than Sith, maybe it will be all right. Fighting Wolffe outside the comm tower wasn’t terrible, and this at least isn't going to be nearly as serious.

“Then yes,” Feral says firmly. “I want to.”

“Don’t let him eat you,” Boost says, and at Wolffe’s glare, he grins. “Putting three caf rations on you, Commander. Pinky swear.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, then jerks his head at the matt. “Come on,” he says, a little grumpy, and heads for it without looking back. Feral follows quickly, tugging at the hem of his tunic as he debates removing it, but after a moment he leaves it where it is. He remembers how Wolffe fought before, and a little extra cloth to be able to get out of his grip can only help.

The ring is a circle of paint on the mats, only a handful of paces across. Wolffe steps into it without hesitation, reaches the far side, and turns. “First ten-second pin or first one to get knocked out of the ring loses, no drawing blood, no weapons.”

“All right.” Feral eyes Wolffe, considering, and—he’s much smaller than Savage, even Savage as he was before Ventress took him. Maul is about the same height, but he’s faster, and his mechanical legs give him an extra edge. Feral managed to get away from Wolffe before, but Wolffe is certainly broader, heavier. Knocking him out of the ring will probably be Feral’s best chance.

Wolffe gives him a narrow look, then steps back, weight balanced evenly. He’s wary, but lightly; Feral can feel the lack of alarm in the emotion, and it settles something inside him as well. He steps forward, like he’s going to circle—

Wolffe lunges. It’s a brutal movement, sheer force and momentum, but Feral sees it coming, and even Wolffe isn't as fast as Savage. He leaps back, letting Wolffe’s grab slip past him, and drops beneath a scything blow that just misses his horns. When he rises, Wolffe is right in front of him, and he grabs Feral’s arm, turns, tosses him over his hip and follows him down without letting go, landing on top of him.

Feral has half an instant to realize, with a flicker of annoyance, that Wolffe _is_ as fast as Maul, and then he twists, getting a leg locked around Wolffe’s hip, an arm beneath himself. When he shoves up and over, Wolffe goes rolling onto his back with a hiss, and Feral eels over him, grabs his wrists, and slams his hands into the floor.

There's no time for a sense of victory; Wolffe slams his head forward, like he’s going for a headbutt, and Feral flinches back, too used to that gesture being full of horns. In the instant of his hesitation, Wolffe jerks his hands free, grabs Feral’s shoulders, and rolls them again, slamming Feral down onto the mat with enough force to knock the wind from him. Wolffe hits his back a moment later, greater weight pinning Feral down, and Feral wants to curse, wants to thrash, but he can't get the leverage. He struggles, and Wolffe makes a sound of amusement, kicking Feral’s foot out wide.

“Six,” he says, almost a taunt. “Seven, eight—”

Feral _growls_ , gets a hand beneath himself, and shoves up with all his strength. Wolffe tries to shove him back down, but Feral gets a knee up under himself, flings himself sideways, and rolls back to his feet as Wolffe hits the mat. It’s tempting to lunge and try to pin him, but Wolffe’s proved that that’s a bad idea. Feral breathes, tells himself to be patient, and retreats to the edge of the ring as Wolffe twists back to his feet. When he straightens and looks at Feral, his expression is considering, assessing, and he tips his head.

“Ever tested how much stronger you are than a Human?” he asks, advancing.

Feral steps sideways, keeping most of the ring between them. “No,” he says. “Having trouble?”

“ _Oooooo,_ ” Boost calls from the sidelines, sounding massively entertained.

Wolffe ignores him, gaze never wavering from Feral. “If you retreat the whole time, you're never going to get anywhere,” he warns.

Feral doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but the thought is there. “I've been in fights before,” he says, calm, and feels Wolffe’s intent half an instant before he moves. This time, instead of trying to dodge, Feral plants his feet, lets Wolffe hit him like he’s going to tackle him back to the ground, and moves with it. He hits the mat on his back, plants a foot in Wolffe’s chest, and throws him, letting Wolffe’s own momentum be the force. Wolffe tries to grab him, but Feral knocks his hands wide, flings him off, and flips to his feet as Wolffe slams into the ground just outside the ring.

There's a moment of startled silence, and then Boost whoops.

Wolffe makes a rude gesture at him, then pushes to his feet. “You really like that move, don’t you,” he says, annoyed, and Feral can't help but grin.

“It works,” he points out.

Wolffe scoffs, stepping back inside the ring. “Again,” he says, and Feral nods, stepping back to find his balance. Wolffe lunges, but lower this time, faster. He hits Feral around the waist instead of in the chest, but Feral is used to that move too, because Savage always thought he was clever in his counters. With his last bit of leverage as Wolffe knocks him back, Feral twists, and they hit the ground rolling. There's enough momentum for Feral to come out on top, and he plants a knee in Wolffe’s chest, grabs his wrists, and leans forward to slam them into the mat. He’s close enough that they're almost nose to nose, but Wolffe isn't a Zabrak, can't headbutt him with his horns, and Feral refuses to move.

For a long, long moment, Wolffe stares up at him, hands flexing in Feral’s grip. His natural eye is a lighter brown than Sinker’s, and his face has more lines, but his mouth is soft. There's something like amusement in his gaze as he watches Feral, and Feral can't quite bring himself to look away.

Then, slowly, Wolffe relaxes back against the mat, breathes out, and says, “Ten.”

Feral blinks, and in a rush he remembers where they are, what’s happening. Heat floods into his face, and he hurriedly pushes to his feet, letting Wolffe go and taking three deliberate steps back.

“Nightbrothers fight hand to hand,” he quickly. “Not with weapons. Usually. That’s why I—that’s how I learned.”

Wolffe grunts, pushing himself up. “A proud martial tradition?” he says sardonically.

Feral hesitates, then shakes his head. “The weapons go to the Nightsister,” he answers. “We hunt, and we fight, but—the Nightsisters don’t let us keep real arms in the village.”

Wolffe considers that for a long moment, then inclines his head. “You're not terrible,” he says gruffly, and Feral scowls at him.

“I _won_ ,” he protests.

Wolffe rolls his eyes. “I said you're _not_ terrible—”

“I've won _twice_!”

“You _lost_ at the tower—”

“Not to _you_ —”

“Ladies, ladies, you're both pretty,” Boost says, tugging them apart a few steps. “Come on, how about you try that again? Keep yourselves occupied.”

Feral looks at Wolffe, finds him looking back with one brow raised. It’s all Feral can do to hide his smile, and Wolffe smirks, intent clear on his face.

“We’ll try it,” he says, and grabs Boost by the back of the neck, hauling him two steps forward and into the ring. “Us against you. Starting _now_.”

Boost yelps, tries to bolt, but Wolffe goes after him, fast and ruthless, and there's no hope of escape.

Feral, because he knows _exactly_ how this goes as a younger brother, obligingly sweeps Boost’s feet out from under him as he tries to run, and _pounces_.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s not the main spaceport Maul takes them to. It’s a much smaller, seedier one on the outskirts of the city, and Padmé knows the layout because Sabé scouted it, had her memorize it in case they needed to make a quick escape. There's no chance to duck out and run, though; Savage is right behind them, and Padmé caught a glimpse of his lightsaber as they walked. And if that’s not enough, Maul is watching. Little glances backwards, assessing, smug, and every time Padmé meets his eyes, he smiles like this is some great victory.

Fox is stiff, silent as he leans into her side, broken arm clutched to his chest. He’s in pain, Padmé can tell that much from his breathing, but he’s watching Maul like he’s ready to pull her out of the way if Maul so much as reaches towards them, and it makes Padmé’s heart turn over in her chest with worry. She wants to say _be careful_ , or _run when you can_ , or anything of the sort because she _knows_ that Maul won't hesitate to kill Fox, but just saying that will put him in more danger.

There's no good way out of this, and she _hates_ Maul in that moment, with an edge of rage that’s almost alarming.

“Mind your step, my queen,” Maul says, stepping aside at the edge of the ship’s ramp, and there's a dark delight in his voice that makes Padmé want to hit him. Vicious satisfaction, she thinks, and meets his eyes evenly as she passes.

“I hope you're prepared for what you're choosing to unleash, Maul,” she says. “Not all Jedi are going to be as merciful with you as Obi-Wan.”

Fox’s breath catches, and Maul's face twists. He grabs her arm, pulling her around, and Padmé doesn’t go for another vibroblade even though the urge is overwhelming. Instead, she lets Maul move her, lets him haul her close until they're eye to eye, and raises her chin, refusing to let her fear show.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi has mercy,” Maul says, whisper-soft, “and it’s what will get him killed. Plo Koon might escape me with his life, but only because he has something of mine and I desire it back more than I desire to end his miserable existence.”

Padmé can't imagine what Plo Koon has that Maul would think was his, but she doesn’t waver, holds his gaze. “I hope you choke on your ambition,” she says.

Maul's hand closes around her throat, gentle, like it’s not a threat. “My ambition is only to take what I deserve, little Queen,” Maul says softly. “Watch your tongue, or your guard might suffer for your temerity.”

Padmé sets her jaw, but meets Fox’s eyes over Maul's shoulder. He’s tense, Savage a bare breath behind him, and the look on his face is…resignation, maybe. Fear, and anger, but also tired acceptance, and it makes something twist in Padmé’s chest.

“Very well,” she says, and drops her gaze back to Maul. “But Fox stays with me.”

“For now,” Maul agrees, silky, and steps away. He stalks up the ramp without looking back, and says over his shoulder, “The hold is prepared for your accommodation, Queen Amidala. I do hope you enjoy your stay.”

Padmé doesn’t answer, just takes Fox’s elbow again and follows him up into the belly of the ship. When they make it up, it’s to the sight of Maul sprawled out lazily in a chair, like a big, smug cat, and anger flickers.

Like he can feel it, Fox turns his hand, catches her wrist, and Padmé closes her eyes and breathes out. Opens them again to find Maul's gaze fixed on them, and refuses to be unnerved by the way his eyes glow gold in the low light.

“Well now,” Maul says, pleased with himself. “It seems I've overlooked something. Keeping an armed prisoner will do no good.”

Padmé doesn’t stiffen, but it takes effort. She’s entirely too aware of her blaster, the vibroblade in her boot, the one tucked into her hair. If Maul takes them—

“Little queen,” Maul says, and his tone is nothing but intent amusement, a cat with a helpless lifeform under its paws. “Remove the clone’s armor. All of it.”

Fox stiffens, and Padmé wants to wince. “He’s not armed,” she says. “Savage took his blaster—”

Maul snorts, tilting his head. “Remove his armor, or you go into the cell naked instead,” he orders, bored. Padmé bristles, opens her mouth to argue, to snap—

“Senator,” Fox says, rough, and his gauntlet closes tighter on her wrist. “Do what he says.”

Helpless, Padmé meets his eyes, because she _knows_ what armor means to a clone. She and Rex had talked about it, the handful of times she’d spent with him when Anakin was called away, and she doesn’t want to take that from him. Doesn’t want to take what little bit of protection he has, right now, or the one thing he has that shows his identity. “Commander—” she starts.

Fox shakes his head. “Do it,” he says, an order, and Padmé closes her eyes, nods once. When this is over, she’ll have to make it up to him. Buy him better armor, or paint, or find a way to give him a gift he can keep as a clone. Fight harder to get clones seen as people, but—

The Chancellor has made it very, very clear that any personhood bills won't make it through the Senate any time soon.

“For every minute you waste, Queen Amidala, I shall ask Savage to take one finger off the clone,” Maul says, and the light in his eyes says their reluctance just makes him all that much happier. “He only has so many to lose, so you’d best hurry.”

 _She_ only has to lose her temper once before he finds her blaster, and Padmé breathes out through her nose, then turns her hand to take Fox’s. As gently as she can, she pulls his gauntlet off, then sets it on the ground beside them. Rises, and Fox is watching her, unmoving. Padmé can't quite meet his gaze, because she’s the one who wanted to meet the Sith alone in the marketplace, but—she can at least be careful, respectful of what the armor means as she unbuckles the vambrace, then pulls it free.

“His arm is broken,” she says, flicking a glance up at Savage, who’s still looming in the doorway. “Is there a bone-mender aboard?”

Savage stiffens just a little, but his eyes are on her hands, on Fox’s armor. “No,” he says shortly.

“Then I need to splint it,” Padmé says, not a demand, but implacable.

Maul waves a hand, apparently bored with the matter. “Keep two pieces of armor, then.”

There are enough layers to her skirt that Padmé can sacrifice at least a few as bindings without worrying about the blaster being obvious. She says, “Thank you,” as politely as she can manage, then starts on the pauldrons. They detach easily enough, and she stacks them neatly by the vambraces, then hesitates, not sure what to move for next.

“The belt and _kama_ ,” Fox says quietly, and Padmé nods, then sinks to her knees without hesitation, reaching for the clasp. Fox is tense, twitches at the touch of her hands, and Padmé _hates this_ , desperately and miserably. Wants to draw her blaster and turn, see if she can't hit Maul even if he’s a Sith, but—

If she misses, they’ll kill Fox.

As quickly and gently as she can, she strips off the _kama_ , settling them with the rest, then starts on the leg armor, trying to get it over with, trying not to think about how she’s taking Fox’s greatest defense as she does.

When she finally gets the greaves off and makes to rise, Fox is waiting, still watching her, mouth tight but one hand offered up. Padmé looks from it to his face, then swallows, deliberately laying her fingers over his palm. Fox grips her hand and pulls her to her feet, and Padmé wants to grab his hand and hang onto it, because he’s the only friendly thing in this cold, dark room, but—

“Thank you, Senator,” Fox says, and there's a touch of dark humor in his voice, in his eyes. “Been having trouble with that latch.”

Padmé smiles despite the fear and dread beating in her chest. “It just needed some patience,” she says, and Fox presses his thumb to her knuckles and then lets go.

“Other pauldron needs to come off before the chestplate can,” he says, and Padmé nods, reaching up to find the clasps. Fox doesn’t move, doesn’t otherwise touch her, but—

It feels a little more like they're in this together, and Padmé finds that each breath comes easier, even in the darkness.

It doesn’t matter what Maul is planning. They're going to get away. She has faith in that.

“ _Missing_?” Wolffe growls. “What do you mean, she’s _missing_?”

Feral blinks, glancing up from his meditation to where Wolffe is on the comm, features tight, mouth set in a dangerous scowl, armor only halfway back on.

“I mean the senator’s not anywhere here, and Fox isn't answering his comm,” Sinker’s tinny voice reports. “Thorn said they both left early this morning for a trip towards the market district, but they never came back, and no one can reach them.”

“Kriff,” Wolffe mutters, rubbing at his eye. He nods curtly, then says, “I’ll alert the general and bring a squad down. You have Senator Organa?”

“Yeah. He was with a friend all morning and didn’t leave,” Sinker answers. “We haven’t gotten any sort of ransom demand, and the Guard hasn’t found any trace of them in the market.”

“Bad when a ransom demand is the best possibility,” Wolffe says darkly. “Keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir. Can't wait until you get here and join the party,” Sinker says dryly, and Wolffe scoffs and cuts the transmission, then turns and starts putting the last of his armor on with even greater speed than before.

“Up,” he tells Feral shortly. “If I'm going planetside, you're coming.”

“If you're sure,” Feral says, maybe a little doubtfully, but he pushes to his feet and scoops up his outer robes, pulling them on and belting them. Wolffe is already moving, and Feral hurries to catch up, falling in beside him as he strides up the corridor. There’s another figure approaching from the far end in a sweep of robes, and Feral can feel Wolffe’s relief at the sight of him.

“General,” Wolffe says. “Senator Amidala has gone missing on the planet.”

“Yes, Senator Organa just commed me,” Plo says, solemn. “We had best see what traces we can find of her, Commander. Your men are prepared?”

“They will be,” Wolffe promises, and Plo smiles behind his rebreather, touching Wolffe’s shoulder.

“I will alert the council and meet you in the hangar,” he says. “Feral, good morning.”

“Good morning,” Feral says, bemused, and Plo touches his horns as he passes, then is gone, sweeping down the hallway and out of sight. With a few quick steps, Feral catches up with Wolffe again, and asks, “Is Sinker all right?”

Wolffe grunts, typing a code into his comm and sending it. “For the moment,” he says. “But if something took Fox _and_ his charge before he could make a big enough fuss that someone noticed, I don’t like it.”

Feral hesitates, but slides his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe, closing his fingers around his wrists. “He’s that good?” he asks quietly.

“The best soldier in the GAR,” Wolffe says, “as he constantly reminds me.” His voice is tight, though, not derisive, and Feral doesn’t like the sharpness of his worry, too much like what he’d felt at the comm tower.

It’s startling, how soon after that happened Feral could get accustomed to the lack of fear.

He doesn’t ask who could have taken Fox and the senator; it’s clear Wolffe doesn’t know, and is going to find out, and he likely needs to concentrate. Instead, Feral focuses on keeping his breathing even, his mind calm; it sounds like Fox is one of Wolffe’s friends, as well as a brother, and if Feral can help find him, he will. It seems like putting him in the brig would be smarter than dragging him down to the planet below, but—he can believe that Wolffe will do what he needs to in order to keep Feral from hurting anyone.

“You're going to have to stay close,” Wolffe says shortly, without looking back. “To me or Plo. If the Nightsisters try again—”

This is probably where they’ll try, with the remaining senator as a target. Feral swallows, but nods, and says, “I will.”

“Good.” Wolffe casts a glance at him, frowning a little, and then says abruptly, “Do you remember the planet?”

Something cold unspools through Feral’s chest, and he wraps his arms around himself. “Is this—did I do something here?” he asks quietly.

Before he can do more than slow, though, Wolffe reaches back, catches his arm and pulls him forward, keeping him moving. “Did you?” he asks, though the way he’s watching Feral closely says he knows.

Feral hesitates, flicking a glance towards one of the windows as they pass. The planet is green and dusty red and blue, and he wants to say that he’s seen it before, but—

He can't remember, and that’s somehow more terrifying than actually knowing.

“I have no idea,” he whispers, and Wolffe’s hand tightens as he pulls Feral in a step closer and raises his comm.

“Relay,” he says shortly, and there's an immediate sound of acknowledgement over the line. “Contact Sekind’s government, see if there's any record of ships from Dathomir having landed recently.”

“Yes, sir,” Relay answers, and Feral breathes out. Dathomir doesn’t have many people, and those it _does_ have don’t travel often. The number should be small enough that if Feral did land here, it will stand out well enough.

He’s just…not entirely sure he wants to know.

“Who died here?” he asks quietly. When Wolffe casts a look at him, silent, he swallows, and says, “Sinker said—there was an assassin on Sekind. And I got a headache on my way to the comm tower, and managed to break my horn. So who died?”

Wolffe grunts, but steers him towards a wide door. “A senator,” he says, and pauses, like he’s weighing what to say next. There's a long pause, and then he lets out a short breath and says, “One of four killed recently. All against the war, and in favor of peace talks.”

Four people. There's every chance Feral killed _four people_ , and he doesn’t even remember it. He swallows, feeling sick, and—he doesn’t kill. Even when he’s working with Savage and Maul, he doesn’t. To know that he _did_ , without ever being aware of it, makes bile turn in his stomach.

“Mother Talzin works for Dooku, sometimes,” he manages. “That—that could be why those senators were picked. Dooku doesn’t want the war to end.”

Wolffe’s hand tightens just a little, and he nods. “I’ll tell the general,” he says, and steers Feral towards a waiting transport that sits across the hangar.

Several clones are loading gear into the bay, Comet among them, and he lifts his head as Wolffe leaps up into the ship. Grins, and waves, and says, “Commander. If you're planning to space him with the rest of us on board, remember that the general is coming, too.”

Wolffe growls. “Put your bucket back on,” he snaps, and Comet snickers and does as he’s ordered.

“Hey, Feral,” he says cheerfully. “Sleep well?”

Feral flushes, heat flooding his face, and desperately hopes his orange skin hides it. “Good morning, Comet,” he says with dignity.

“Don’t encourage him,” Wolffe mutters, and pushes Feral towards a seat right behind the cockpit. “Warthog, ready to go?”

“Yes, sir,” Warthog answers. “You sure you don’t want a wing of fighters, too?”

“No Sep presence yet,” Wolffe says. “Hold off until we need it.”

“Yes, Commander,” Warthog agrees, though he sounds resigned more than anything. Casts a glance back, to where Feral is sitting, and Feral can feel the dart of his interest. “Bringing Feral? Going to give him a lightsaber?”

“Shut your mouth,” Wolffe says. “He’s still a prisoner, but he stays with me.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” Warthog says mildly. “Squads are on their way, and we should be set for takeoff as soon as the general arrives.”

“Good.” Wolffe blows out a breath, then sinks down on the seat next to Feral, pulling his helmet from his belt and setting it in his lap. Feral can't help but steal a glance at it, bold streaks of grey against the white, touched with red and yellow. It’s beautiful, and Feral almost wants to reach out and touch it, but he twists his fingers together in his lap to keep from doing so. It seems rude, and he doesn’t know if troopers even allow that kind of thing. Nightbrother tattoos tend to be personal in meaning, but done communally, but—he hasn’t asked how it is for the clones.

Before he can even weigh whether he _should_ ask, there's a quiet chime. With a frown, Wolffe checks his comm, then lifts it, and says curtly, “Relay.”

“Sir,” Relay says. “Three Dathomirian ships have docked recently. One a little over two weeks ago, and then one a few days ago. The third just docked this morning.”

Three, Feral thinks, cold. But—if he was the first, here to kill the senator, who are the others? Just visitors? Or are they here for a similar reason?

“Do you have names of the ships?” he asks, leaning in, and Wolffe eyes him but doesn’t protest, even when Feral tugs his comm closer.

There's a pause, like Relay is startled, and then he answers quickly, “The first one was a light cruiser, the _Wraith_.”

Feral’s ship. He swallows, gripping Wolffe’s arm, and closes his eyes. “The others?”

“The _Nightbrother_ and the _Banshee_.”

Feral goes cold all the way through, breath hitching. He doesn’t know the third, but—

Maul. Maul is here, and Savage is likely with him, and Feral can't breathe, like his lungs have seized, like everything inside of him has suddenly turned to ice. He digs his fingers into Wolffe’s armor, and wants to open his mouth, wants to tell Wolffe, wants to make sure no clone goes into this and dies because they don’t know who they're facing. But—

His brothers are on Sekind, and if Feral says anything, Plo will track them down and try to kill them, because they're Sith.

“Feral?” Wolffe asks, just a little sharp, and Feral startles, jerking his hand away from Wolffe’s arm. Wonders, a little sick, if this is why Fox disappeared. If Wolffe lost a friend because Feral’s brothers killed him and abandoned his body where it fell, not even caring enough to hide it. The fact that it’s all too plausible turns his stomach; all Fox would have to have done is stumble over them, obviously a clone, and they would have murdered him just for that. or if they wanted to kidnap the senator that Fox was guarding, Fox would just be—collateral. Another obstacle to be dealt with immediately and without hesitation.

“I've never heard of the last two,” he says, and it’s a kneejerk instinct to protect his brothers, even from the clones. He really doesn’t know the third, so it’s only half a lie, for all it still hurts to say the words. Feral closes his eyes, and breathes, and almost as an afterthought says, “The _Wraith_ was mine.”

Wolffe’s exhale is harsh as he closes the comm line. “Confirmation,” he says quietly, and then pushes to his feet and pulls his helmet on as a trooper leaps up into the transport. “Jet. Get your squads in and ready, we need to move.”

The captain salutes, then turns and waves his men up, letting them file in. Feral presses himself deeper into the corner, wrapping his arms around himself, and tries not to curl inward. His head is spinning, and he has no idea what to do. If he can get away from Wolffe, get to Savage and Maul—

But they won't listen to him, if he tells them to leave. Will be derisive of wanting to avoid conflict, confident that the two of them together can kill Plo, and Feral isn't even certain that they would be wrong. He doesn’t _want_ them to, would do anything to prevent it, but he doesn’t think he _can_. He’s weak, a failed Sith warrior to his older brother’s Sith Lord, is the reason his eldest brother was turned into a puppet by the Nightsisters.

He never even knew that the Nightsisters turned _him_ into a puppet, even though he should have realized _something_ had happened well before he did.

Feral closes his eyes, feeling the mark on his throat burn, like satisfaction, like glee. Thinks of Wolffe’s words, and changing things, and fighting back, but—

What is he supposed to do when the one reason he’s had to keep moving is his brothers, and they're the ones he’d have to fight against?

With a clatter of armor and boots on metal, the troopers in the transport come to attention, and a moment later Plo leaps lightly up into the ship. “Good morning,” he says politely, and Wolffe draws himself upright.

“General,” he says. “Ready to move.”

Plo inclines his head. “Very well, then. Warthog, Tracer.”

Warthog offers a lazy salute and then starts the engines, the side doors sliding shut. “On our way, General. We’re cleared for an emergency landing in front of where the senator’s staying.”

“Splendid. I'm sure Bail will be quite relieved to see us,” Plo says, and moves forward to touch Wolffe’s shoulder. “Thank you, Commander, for your response even with such short notice.”

Feral can practically feel the roll of Wolffe’s eyes, even under his helmet. “You don’t have to thank us for doing our jobs, General.”

“I think I do,” Plo counters cheerfully, but his gaze falls on Feral, and he takes a step forward, then crouches down. “Feral, my dear. Don’t be concerned. Wolffe will stay close.”

That’s half of what Feral is worried about. If he has to get past Wolffe, if he tries to slip away, Wolffe will likely assume that the Nightsisters are controlling him again, and fight it. And with the tranquilizers, Feral’s chances are much slimmer than they might otherwise be. But he _needs_ to get to Maul and Savage, needs to warn them, get them to leave before Plo can find them.

Before Maul and Savage can cut their way through the Wolfpack like they do every other clone battalion they encounter, and just the _thought_ of that makes Feral want to curl up in the darkness and never open his eyes again.

“I was here before,” he manages, and feels Plo's attention sharpen. “I—I must have been the one to kill the senator, when the Nightsisters were controlling me, and now—”

A hand settles lightly on the back of his head, pulling him forward, and Plo tips his head like a Zabrak would, to touch horns, even if he doesn’t have any himself. “You are not at fault for what was done to you, Feral,” Plo says gently.

 _But I'm at fault for what I choose to do_ , Feral wants to say, but he closes his eyes and leans into Plo's warmth, desperate for it when he’s so cold inside. For a moment all he can think of is the arena, Savage abandoning the opportunity to land a blow in order to run to Feral when he fell. It had left Savage open, and Ventress had hit him so hard that he couldn’t even pull himself back upright.

She’d called him pathetic for it, but Feral remembers the way Savage leaned over him, so ready to put his body in between Feral and Ventress, and curls his hands into fists.

“Thank you, Master Koon,” he whispers, and means it, regardless of what happens next. “Thank you for—for seeing something in me.”

Through the dark goggles, he can just see the crinkle of Plo's eyes, can just feel the heat of his humor. “Only what was there, my dear,” he says, and Feral wants nothing more than to curl into him and tell him that Maul and Savage are waiting, that they're on the planet and one wrong step will catch their attention, but he can't.

Thirty thousand troopers, dead in one blow. How many hundreds of thousands more, over the course of the war? How many can be laid at Maul's feet, or Savage’s?

How many deaths could Feral have prevented, if he’d stepped in?

Feral twists his fingers together, clenching his hands around each other until they ache. How many clones could he keep from dying this time, if he spoke up? But—

If the cost of it is Savage’s life, or Maul's, how can Feral even consider it? They're his _brothers._

“Peace, Feral,” Plo says gently, and long fingers stroke over the back of Feral’s skull. When Feral lifts his head, Wolffe is watching them, too, unreadable behind his helmet, but…Feral can feel him. Close, clearer than anyone else, like when they woke this morning and Wolffe was all Feral could sense, steady and scarred but still strong, and Feral swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

He doesn’t know what to do, and it feels like there's no correct choice in all the universe that he can make right now.


	16. Chapter 16

By unspoken agreement, Wolffe and Plo don’t let Feral near Senator Organa.

It’s not something that even has to be communicated by looks; as soon as they land, Wolffe heads for Thorn, and Plo goes to meet the senator, and since Wolffe is the one with the tranqs obviously he takes Feral with him. It’s not like Feral objects to not meeting Organa, either. He’s quiet as he follows along behind Wolffe, nervous and uncertain in a way Wolffe doesn’t have to be a Jedi to feel, and he makes no move to protest anything.

Wolffe can't exactly blame him. Sekind is apparently the last place the Nightsisters forced him to land, where they made him kill someone against his will and without his knowledge, and knowing that would be enough to knock Wolffe off balance, too, to say the least.

He can see the same knowledge in Sinker’s eyes when he turns to greet them, the way his gaze immediately falls on Feral and his mouth tightens. When he glances up, catching Wolffe’s eye, Wolffe tips his head in silent agreement, and Sinker grimaces.

“Commander,” he says. Beside him, Thorn offers a salute, and Wolffe returns it with a curt nod, coming to a sharp halt.

“Any changes?” he asks.

Thorn shakes his head. “With the sergeant’s men to sit on Senator Organa, I pulled my Guard back and had them try to track Senator Amidala’s path, but they haven’t managed it yet. A few people saw the commander and the senator heading for the park, but…”

But. Too many places to go in a city as big as this one, and a hell of a lot of danger one reckless senator and one bull-headed clone could get into. Wolffe pulls a face, safe behind his helmet, and says, “I’ll send a squad to check the park, and I'm taking mine to check the spaceport.”

Thorn nods, and he looks tired. “Sekind put a hold on all outgoing flights, but that only lasts until someone decides to leave anyway. If you’ll leave another squad with me, I’ll check the other port.”

There's a soft, indrawn breath from behind them, but Wolffe doesn’t turn to look at Feral. “Other?” he demands, because that didn’t come up on the specs.

Thorn grimaces. “Informal port, off to the south side of the city. Used to be solely smugglers using it, but recently there's been an uptick in refugees, too, and a couple of cargo freighters trying to dodge fees.”

Sounds like a cesspit if Wolffe’s ever heard one, and he huffs out a disgusted breath. “Send me the coordinates. I’ll take that one, you hit the main port. I can have a wing of fighters in the air in five minutes if I need it, to deal with any runners.”

Something in the set of Thorn’s shoulders eases, and he nods. “If someone’s hoping to move the senator off-planet, it will likely be from there,” he agrees.

A hand touches Wolffe’s arm, light and quick, and he turns, raising a brow at Feral as he steps up beside them. Feral gives Thorn a wary glance, but then raises his head and says, “If the senator or Fox is close enough, I can sense them. Even if they're on a ship.”

Right. Force powers, Wolffe thinks, and breathes out through his nose. Useful, probably. Right up until the Nightsisters start sticking their fingers in things again.

“Good,” he says curtly. “You need to have seen Senator Amidala?”

Feral shakes his head. “If she’s in distress nearby, I’ll find her,” he says quietly. “She’s Human?”

Wolffe nods, and Feral hesitates, then steps away a short distance, crouching down and closing his eyes. Sinker catches Wolffe’s gaze, then quickly slides over to block Feral from Senator Organa’s view, putting his body between Feral and the mansion.

“You get _two_ generals?” Thorn asks after a long moment, one brow raised. “Not sure if that’s good luck or bad there, _vod_.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes hard enough to hurt. “He’s my prisoner,” he says, and when Thorn blinks at him, clearly caught off guard, Wolffe refuses to explain. “Feral?”

Feral pauses, then shakes his head, glancing up. “I don’t feel them nearby, so they at least made it out of this area,” he says, and pushes to his feet. He hesitates, and in the afternoon sun, against the red clay and orange sand, he looks like he could take two steps into the city and disappear entirely, even in Jedi robes. Wolffe almost wants to grab him, to haul him close and keep a hand on his wrist to make sure that doesn’t happen, but—

Feral won't disappear. He’s proved that, Wolffe thinks, and breathes out. And even if he tries it, Wolffe has the tranqs. If the Nightsisters take him again, Wolffe is prepared.

“Come on, then,” he says, and reaches out despite himself, gripping Feral’s elbow. Feral flicks him a glance, quick and almost furtive, but he leans into the touch a little, like he’s tired and can't stay on his own feet. It makes Wolffe think of that moment in the transport, with Plo, and how just for a moment it had seemed like he was about to crumple in on himself and just cling to Plo.

Something curls down his spine, cold and touched with dread, and Wolffe wants to tighten his grip, wants to pull Feral around even though there's no earthly reason to do so and shake an answer out of him, an answer to a question he doesn’t even know.

Instead, he opens his hand, and Feral puts a pace between them, giving Wolffe a faint, crooked smile before he turns his head and looks away.

“Let’s move,” Wolffe says curtly, and—it’s only a feeling. Feral is shaken, and it’s rattling Wolffe, and Wolffe refuses to let it. He jerks his head at Sinker, who nods and signals his men forward. “Feral.”

Without comment, Feral falls into step with him as they head down the quiet street, his eyes scanning the houses around them. He looks a little distracted, a little twitchy, and Wolffe studies him for a long moment and then looks away.

“What’s your range?” he asks curtly.

Feral hesitates. “It depends,” he says, and when Wolffe shoot him an annoyed glance, he huffs softly. “It does! People’s minds aren’t all the same. Some people whisper, but some people shout, and—Human minds are different from Zabrak minds, too. I'm used to Night—to Zabraks.”

Nightsisters, he was probably going to say. Wolffe doesn’t let himself grimace, but the thought is there. An empath trapped around a whole group of people just like Ventress—Wolffe would rather give his mission reports via interpretive dance naked in front of the Senate than spend even a moment in whatever hole the Nightsisters live in, _especially_ if he had to feel their emotions the whole time.

“How?” Sinker asks curiously, moving up to flank Feral. Feral darts a quick look at him, but his presence eases a little of the building tension coiling down Wolffe’s spine. Sinker can handle himself. He knows to be careful, after Feral’s last brainwashed attempt at an attack. It can only help to have him so close.

Feral opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly weighing the question. “You don’t—you don’t sense things the same way,” he finally says, sounding faintly frustrated. “I don’t know—what you hear is different, and you can't smell certain things, and you can't see in the dark at all. And—how you react, it’s different too.”

Wolffe raises a brow, trading looks with Sinker. Feral’s frustration is a little amusing, but then, Wolffe’s never really had to explain how Human senses work to someone who isn't Human. Feral trying to put Zabrak senses into words clearly isn't working as well as he’d like. “How we react?” he asks.

Feral nods. “When you’re in a fight, you get shaky,” he says. “It makes you…fuzzy around the edges. Zabraks get happy. Excited. Fear can make us shaky, but hunting, fighting—it’s…”

“Euphoria,” Sinker translates. When Wolffe and Feral both look at him, he shrugs. “Togruta, Devaronians, and Zabraks have a different kind of adrenaline from Humans. More fight and less flight. Some of us actually listen when Payback talks.”

Wolffe snorts, because like _hell_. Unless it’s medically necessary or relating to the general, he can read it in a briefing when it’s important.

Feral doesn’t laugh the way Wolffe expects, though. The flicker of his smile is quick, weak, and he looks away again an instant later, eyes trained ahead of them. “He’s right,” he says quietly. “My—my brother and I used to hunt in the swamps. We made it into a competition. He was bigger, and faster, but I knew where the animals liked to hide, so I always found them first. And—he would pretend to be mad, but he was always so proud of me, too. I could feel it.”

His voice cracks. Wolffe watches him curl his arms around himself and thinks of his whispered confession last night, Payback and the scan. This would be the same brother who broke his neck, Wolffe assumes, under the control of the Nightsisters. Under the control of Ventress, specifically, after she’d already killed almost a dozen other Nightbrothers in picking her champion.

Wolffe doesn’t say anything, because it _was_ a confession when Feral said it last night, bare and halting and painful, but—

He reaches out, hooks a finger in Feral’s horns, and steers him right, towards the coordinates Thorn sent him. “Same one that always pinned you?” he asks. “Think he was letting you do all the work.”

“That’s what _he_ said,” Feral mutters, but the roll of his eyes is something a little closer to fond, amused, even if the look in his face isn't quite light enough to match it. Wolffe can feel him leaning into the touch on his head, and he lets his hand stay there a moment longer than it needs to, rubbing his fingertips over the smooth curves of Feral’s small horns. They’re slick, like polished wood, but warm, and Wolffe closes his fingers tight over them, gives Feral a small, gentle shake, and then lifts his hand away.

“Feel anything?” he asks instead of acknowledging it, and Feral swallows, then shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says. “Maybe at the other port?”

“Thorn has that one,” Wolffe says and casts a look ahead of them, to where he can see the streets starting to widen out. The streets are mostly straight lines, and the secondary port is still a ways from here, but if he uses his helmet he can see the shape of a ship landing, startling against the backdrop of the city.

For a brief moment, Feral looks like he wants to protest, but an instant later he simply nods, falling back a step so he’s not quite even with Wolffe. Sinker clearly notices, too; he tips his helmet, a silent question, but Wolffe doesn’t have an answer. He tips a hand in a subtle motion of _tell you later_ , and Sinker sighs almost silently, but nods, letting it rest.

Wolffe doesn’t broach it either, because he has no idea how to. Because the cause is obvious, and Feral is still upright, still moving, still helping. Still smiling, even.

His brother, the brother he clearly grew up with and loved, broke his kriffing neck. The same brother he’s still following, likely, who’s still serving the Nightsisters, who’s the whole reason Feral is in the middle of this war. Wolffe closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, and tells himself not to think too hard about it. The Seps have done a hell of a lot that’s objectionable over the years. This is just one more thing to add to the list.

“Sir,” Sinker says quietly, and Wolffe turns. Sinker’s eyes are on the buildings around them, though, and there's a frown in his voice when he says, “Think someone’s got eyes on us.”

Eyes narrowing, Wolffe scans the buildings, the narrow alleys. They're moving out of the residential areas, but things are still tightly-packed, bad for lines of sight. “Saw something?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Sinker allows, voice tight. “Shadow, but—I think I've seen that same shadow before.”

There's a quiet breath, and Feral asks, “Someone’s following us? But—I don’t feel anything.”

Wolffe grimaces, not about to risk overlooking it with a senator currently missing. He raises his comm, sending Plo a brief message and requesting backup when he gets the chance, and gets an affirmative a moment later.

“General’s coming,” he says. “Eyes open.”

Sinker nods, relieved, and signals to the men to tighten up, forming just a little closer around them. As they do, Wolffe reaches back and gets ahold of an elbow, tugging Feral up again. “Don’t fall behind,” he says gruffly, and Feral casts him a glance, something Wolffe can't read on his face. He nods, though, and as Wolffe goes to pull away, Feral catches his wrist.

“I know I said it to Plo,” he says quietly. “But—thank you as well, Wolffe.”

Wolffe considers him for a long, long moment, then pulls his hand away. Brushes Feral’s horns, the curve of his head, and then hauls his hood up, over his head, and right down over his eyes.

“Keep moving,” he days gruffly, and Feral makes a sound of indignant protest, shoving his hand away, but—

Well. Wolffe maybe feels a little less unsettled, no matter how vague or unfounded the feeling, at the sight of Feral laughing just a little as he pushes the hood back enough to see.

Feral can't do this.

Nerves vibrate under his skin, and he feels like he’s going to tear himself apart with every step he takes, like he’s being pulled in a thousand different directions with every meter closer they get to the port. Maul's ship is going to be there, and _Maul_ will likely be there, and Savage as well, and there's no way for Feral to knock out all the clones without hurting them, slip away, and warn his brothers.

He doesn’t even know if he _should_ warn them. Savage will want to fight, will want to kill Plo, and Maul will likely let him for the sheer glee of killing a Jedi. For the joy of throwing it back in Kenobi's face the next time they meet. But—

They'll cut through the clones, too, on their way to Plo.

Feral fists his hands under the drape of the robe’s sleeves, trying to breathe evenly. Trying not to think about the opposite, either, because what if the warning doesn’t work and Plo and the clones kill Maul? What if they cut down Savage, call him a monster and kill him like a rabid beast? Feral lost Savage once, and the fact that he found him again is so far beyond all odds that it shouldn’t be possible. Coming back from the dead should already have used up all of Feral’s luck, but—

But Savage is _happy_. Savage has Maul, and Maul is getting better, and Feral can't let _either_ of them be hurt in any way.

“Fan out,” Wolffe says. “Look for anything suspicious. Comet, Mortar, perimeter. No one in or out.”

“Sir!” Comet and Mortar split off, taking men with them, and Feral swallows, watching them disappear into the rows of ships. He can't see the _Nightbrother_ , but it’s a small ship, and Maul would keep it near the center, where it’s harder to find. If he can turn Wolffe and his squads away from there—

“Anything yet?” Wolffe asks curtly, though Feral can feel the attentiveness in him, the wary intent as he leads the way between two freighters.

Feral glances up, trying to feel for any familiar minds, but—he’s so nervous that it’s hard. Sinker’s certainty that they were being watched is enough to throw him off, too, because what if it’s Maul? What if Maul can _see_ Wolffe and Sinker and the rest, and he’s just biding his time, waiting to kill them?

“No,” he says, and—

A clawed hand settles on his shoulder, almost enough to startle him out of his skin. “Peace, Feral,” Plo says, amused, and inclines his head to Wolffe as Wolffe turns. “The senator remains in his lodgings for now. What have you found?”

Wolffe grunts. “Not much, sir. Smuggler’s port. Thorn has the real one.”

Still gripping Feral’s shoulder gently, Plo surveys the ships, then hums lightly. “Quite the collection of souls,” he says easily, and Wolffe snorts. With a quiet chuckle, Plo tips his head, then says, “Feral. Your emotions cloud your vision, and stand between you and the Force. As in meditation, let your mind find its center.”

Feral closes his eyes. He doesn’t want Plo here. He doesn’t want _anyone_ here, and that knowledge, the fear of what’s going to happen, is a twist like nausea in his stomach. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says softly, the closest to a confession that he can force himself to voice. When he glances up, Plo is watching him, but—so is Wolffe. Wolffe’s eyes are dark and steady and faintly wary through his helmet, and Feral just wants to wrap his arms around himself and find somewhere dark to exist alone for a while.

“I'm…afraid,” he manages, and Plo's fingers tighten just a little, one comforting squeeze before he lets go.

“You recognize it,” he says gently. “That is the first step, my dear. Recognize it, accept it, move through it, and you overcome it.”

If Feral had really overcome his fear, if he were better, he would know what to do. The Force is supposed to be a guide, an instinct, but—all Feral can feel right now is his own indecision, his own grief rising preemptively.

And then, like a flare across his senses, there's a surge of fear not his own, rage that cuts like a knife, protective as a shield and as precise as a blaster bolt. Someone is _furious_ , and right on the heels of that fury comes a spike of pain, and fear, harsh enough to make Feral jerk. Plo's head comes up, and in an instant he’s straightened to his full height, steady but alert.

“General?” Wolffe asks, even as he reaches for his blasters.

“Pain and fear,” Plo says evenly, and glances at Feral. “You feel it as well, my dear?”

Unable to do anything else, Feral nods. “Someone got hurt,” he says. “And someone else is angry about it.”

Wolffe’s breath hitches, and Feral can feel the way his thoughts immediately slip sideways, going to another clone. A man in red and white armor, a faceless figure in a grand dress beside him, and—

“This way, Commander,” Plo says, and strides into the maze of ships, robes flaring around him. Wolffe and Sinker keep pace behind him, and Feral hesitates, but brings up the rear, clenching his fingers in his sleeves. He could turn now, could run, but—

Maul is ahead of them. Feral doesn’t have to feel his brother’s presence to know that.

Quick, subtle, like a shadow, Feral thinks he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look, it’s already gone.

“Fox?” Wolffe asks curtly, and Feral winces at the slow-rising but implacable tide of his anger, the pure, bloody fury at the thought that Fox might be hurt and suffering.

“Perhaps,” Plo says, but he means _yes_. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.” Sinker splits off, vanishing back among the ships and crates with his blaster held at the ready, and Feral tries to remember how to breathe. This is all spinning out of whatever control he _did_ have over the situation, and he has no idea what to do. And—

“Well now,” a voice says, low, pleased, soft but full of darkness. “A Council member, even? I must say, I wasn’t expecting one senator to receive this much attention from anyone but Skywalker.”

Feral freezes, breath knotting in his throat as his chest goes cold and hollow. With dread rising, he looks up, and it’s no strain at all to find Maul, perched on top of a stack of crates with one knee pulled up, the other leg dangling. He’s watching Plo with a smile, but there’s nothing kind about it, nothing even slightly warm. It’s a hunter’s smile, and there's no escaping it.

The way Wolffe goes stiff and takes one sharp step back says more than words ever could.

Plo doesn’t move, though. He studies Maul for a long moment, then folds his hands into his sleeves. “Maul,” he says, courteous. “Is it still _Darth_ Maul, may I ask? It seems your Master has rather little to do with you at the moment, and I will admit to some confusion.”

Maul's expression darkens, and the snap of his rage is claws in the darkness. “I am a Sith Lord,” he says, cool. “If you fail to recognize that, Jedi, it is your men who will pay the price.”

Plo hums, unwavering. “I have no doubts as to what you are, Maul,” he says evenly. “Though I do wonder if _you_ know sometimes.”

Maul smirks, cocking his head, and his eyes glow even in the daylight, not just Zabrak gold but Sith gold. “I am fully aware of what I am, Master Koon,” he says, lazily intent. “And what you are, as well. A faithful servant of the Republic, in all things. Would you truly see the lovely Queen Amidala executed without saving her?”

“I assume you want something in return for her release,” Plo says evenly. “And the release of Commander Fox, as well.”

Maul waves a hand. “The clone? A bonus, to be won after a successful negotiation,” he says dismissively. “But for the senator—she is a valuable prize.” He turns his head towards the sleek, low-slung ship—

With a cry, a figure goes tumbling down the ramp, hitting the ground hard. She rises immediately, but Savage stalks down after her, and Feral digs his nails into his own palms, so hard he can feel his skin break. Savage looks precisely as he did last time Feral saw him, huge and imposing, his face almost blank except for the darkness there, and he’s dragging a clone by one arm. The clone is struggling, fighting, but he can move Savage’s grip, and his other arm is splinted, bound with armor plates and strips of the woman’s dress. As he reaches the bottom of the ramp, Savage leans down, gets a hold of the senator’s arm, and hauls her to her feet, holding her still.

“You wanted the prisoners, brother?” he asks roughly.

“Thank you, Savage,” Maul says, smiling. His glee vibrates along Feral’s skin, curls down his spine. “Now, Master Koon, shall we open negotiations?”

“ _Negotiations_ implies that there is something you desire in return,” Plo says mildly, and he still feels like a calm river, steady and unwavering. “What could the Republic have that would please a Sith Lord?”

Maul's smile shows teeth. “Ah, not the Republic, Master Koon. _You_.”

Wolffe stiffens, hands going tight around his blasters. “General—” he bites out.

Plo raises a hand, cutting him off. “Me?” he says, all light surprise and a touch of humor. “If you seek to take me in return for the senator—”

Savage growls, low and rumbling, and Feral can't help but flick a glance at him, startled. That’s Savage _angry_ , angry in a deep and personal way, far more so than the usual rage he feels. “No,” he snaps. “We don’t want _you_.”

“Indeed,” Maul says, and he leaps down from the top of the crates, landing with a flourish and rising. Taking a step to the side, he curls a finger under the senator’s chin, and smiles at the look of fury she aims at him. “You recently acquired something of ours, Master Koon. We want it back, and in return, we will refrain from damaging the senator or her guardian any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“Master Koon,” the senator says sharply. “If you bargain with them, the Republic—”

Maul flattens a hand over her mouth, muffling the words. “Ah, ah, little queen. You fight against your own best interests. And the best interests of your guard, as well.”

The senator glares, but Fox laughs, one sharp bark of sound. “Good,” he snaps, and when Savage shakes him, he snaps his mouth shut around a sound of pain but doesn’t waver.

Wolffe’s grip tightens on his blasters, and there's violence right beneath his skin, carried on a wash of fear and worry.

Kenobi, Feral thinks, and swallows, trying to calculate the distance between himself and Maul, though he still has no idea what to do to end this. This must be some kind of plot to get Kenobi. It _has_ to be. Trading the senator for Plo, and then using Plo to draw Kenobi out. Maul has been focused on his revenge for so long—

“Something of yours?” Plo echoes, tilting his head, and there’s a thought crystalizing in his mind, something Feral can feel. “And what might that be?”

Maul breathes in, and the deadly wash of his fury is like biting insects, like splatters of acid. “A Zabrak,” he says, and Feral’s breath knots in his lungs. He can't even _begin_ to process those two words. “A Nightbrother. Captured in your last assault. Return him to me, and I will release Senator Amidala.”

Wolffe growls, and it’s a Human sound, but it’s also the closest Feral has ever heard a Human come to a Zabrak’s snarl. “Going to drag him back to the Nightsisters—”

Because of him, Feral thinks, and closes his eyes. This this all because of _him_.

He still doesn’t know what to do. But he _can't_ just stand here, watching, and do nothing.

Taking a breath, he steps forward. Catches Wolffe’s arm, then slips past him even as Wolffe jerks around to look at him. Feral doesn’t look back, but steps out into the space between Plo and Maul, then pushes his hood off, and meets the burning gold of Maul's gaze.

“Brothers,” he says, and feels Wolffe go very, very still and cold behind him. “Stop this.”

“Feral,” Maul says, and takes a step forward. Another, a third, until he’s standing right in front of Feral. He lifts a hand, and Feral has no idea what to expect, but—

Anything other than the brush of Maul's knuckles over the curve of his cheek, the way Maul leans in. And—it aches, it makes something in Feral’s chest wrench hot and tight, but he steps forward, lets Maul pull him in to tangle their horns, and his breath hitches like he’s going to cry at the flicker of long-ignored warmth in his bones, the recognition that Maul is his brother, too, just as much as Savage. That Feral _cares_ for Maul, just as much as he does for Savage.

Maul has never done this before. Maul has never seemed to care in return, but—

“Shh,” Maul says, and there’s still that thread of glee in him, something full of vicious satisfaction, that says this is mostly show, but Feral doesn’t _care_. He leans there for a moment, and he can't remember the last time Maul touched him outside of sparring, outside of active training, but Maul curls a hand over the nape of his neck and tips his head, eyes on Plo even as he holds Feral in place. “Shh, little brother, we have you now.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Please stop all of this,” Feral says quietly, and opens his eyes, catching Maul's gaze. He doesn’t let himself think about looking back at Wolffe and Plo. “Mother Talzin, she—”

Maul's grip tightens on Feral’s nape, and the spark of his anger is all heat and dark flame. “Yes,” he says, low enough that Plo and Wolffe won't hear. “Mother Talzin will be dealt with for her actions against you. You are _my_ apprentice, brother.”

Possessive, dark, almost a snarl, but Feral closes his eyes and swallows. He _aches,_ low and deep in his chest. Maul doesn’t _know_ , because he would never stand for what Mother Talzin had done if he did, but he’s still willing to say that. He’s still willing to _feel_ that. It’s a Sith's feeling, the knee-jerk rage that tangles claws in Feral’s spine, but—

Rage _for_ him, rather than rage _against_ him, and it shouldn’t make such a difference to Feral, but it does.

“Shh,” Maul says, and Feral opens his eyes, looks into Maul's face and almost startles at the way Maul grips his shoulder. “We found you, brother. We came for you.”

It’s exactly what Feral never believed they would do. He breathes in, doesn’t know what to say, how to react. They _shouldn’t_ have come for him, shouldn’t have done all of this for him, but—

“Maul,” he says, still quiet, and holds Maul's gaze as he tries not to waver. “Maul, we should leave. Just—leave them be here.”

His skin prickles, despite Maul's touch. He’s vividly, horrifyingly aware of Plo and Wolffe and Sinker behind him, so vulnerable. If Maul decided to draw his lightsaber right now, take one step past Feral, he would be right in front of Wolffe, and Wolffe already lost an eye to a Sith. He doesn’t need to lose his life to Feral’s brother, only here because Feral wasn’t good enough to keep from being captured.

The curl of Maul's smile is something that chills Feral’s blood. “Leave? When there are enemies in front of me who _took you_ from me? When I could destroy our enemies and leave a warning for any others who would try something similar?”

“Mother Talzin should be our first concern,” Feral says, quick, and it’s almost impossible not to trip over his own words, to get them out without his panic cresting. “Brother, she—”

The words die. Locked in his throat, like a hand closed around it, and Feral grabs Maul's hand where it rests on his nape, drags it forward. Confusion flickers across Maul's face for half an instant before Feral presses his fingertips to the Nightsisters’ mark. “ _Brother_ ,” he says, insistent. “Please. We can't—she’s planning something, Maul. She’s _doing_ something and I don’t know why. I don’t know _how_.”

Maul's eyes narrow, his mouth thinning. “Is she,” he says, and it’s not a question despite the wording. “Our mother is overstepping her bounds yet again. She sent you on a mission alone. What was it?”

Feral swallows. Despite himself, he clutches at Maul's wrist, desperate for something, _anything_ that’s close to comfort, but Maul is just watching him, as tense and expectant and dangerous as a hunting dire-cat. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and Maul's expression slides from wary to _furious_ in the span of a heartbeat.

“You don’t know,” he repeats, and lifts his head, untangling their horns. He steps away, and Feral starts to reach for him and then remembers himself at the last moment, jerking his hand back. “You won't tell me, brother? We came to _rescue_ you.”

“I know,” Feral says, a protest, and takes a step after him. “Maul, I want to—”

“But your loyalty would rest with _her_ over us?” Maul asks, that silky tone that means it’s a threat, and he spins, grabbing Feral’s arm and pulling him closer. “We are your _brothers_ , Feral.”

Feral flinches, closing his eyes. They are. Savage and Maul are both his family, his _only_ family in any way that counts. He loves them. He loves _both_ of them. Even thinking about trying to stop them by force turns his stomach, and he knows he wouldn’t manage to stand against them even if he was skilled enough.

“I know,” he says, and opens his eyes, meeting Maul's gaze as evenly as he can. “Maul, I—”

“Brother,” Savage says, a quiet, almost gentle warning, and Feral goes still, his breath knotting in is throat. For a moment, he struggles for words, for the ability to even look at Savage, and before he can find them, Savage says, “Feral would not betray us. Not for anyone.”

Maul scoffs, but he folds his arms over his chest and doesn’t argue. “I suppose he does know better,” he allows, and studies Feral for a long moment. “Savage was most concerned, brother. Won't you even look at him?”

Feral doesn’t flinch, but his chest feels tight as he turns quickly. Knowing Savage was concerned is—

Fox is staring at him. Fox is _glaring_ , hatred on his face, and it’s not Wolffe’s face but it _is_ , close enough that Feral freezes, not even able to move. One of Fox’s arms is still caught in Savage’s grip, and the other is bound because it’s _broken_. There's a bruise setting in on his face, coloring one side of it, and he feels like fury and despair and rage, buried, long-standing rage that tastes like poison on the back of Feral’s tongue. Part of his fear is for himself, but the other part is for the pretty woman in Savage’s grip, her long brown hair coming loose from its knot and her expression arctic as she stands there, mouth tight.

Oh, Feral thinks, and it’s like a shock of ice water, like a cold knife lodging beneath his lungs. He knew. He knew that Savage and Maul took prisoners, but—

But he hadn’t really _looked_ , had he.

“Savage,” he says, and takes a step forward. Thinks, mad, desperate, that if he can distract Savage maybe they can run, but Savage doesn’t let go of both of them. Just drops the guard back to the ground, hauling the woman closer, and reaches out with his free hand. There's a wash of relief in his face, and he grabs Feral by the front of his tunics the way he used to when they were children and hauls him close, wrapping an arm around him—

The whip-crack of fear is instinctual, remembered, wrapped up in the feeling of not being able to breathe, the confusion, the pain, the terror of Savage as something _different_. Something foreign, when he’d been the only constant in Feral’s life for _decades_. Feral stiffens before he can help himself, the memory of Savage’s hand closing around his neck too close, and jerks back.

Like he’s been burned, Savage lets go of him, wrenching back. The senator cries out as she’s dragged, trips, almost falls, but Feral can hardly even think, can't breathe. He staggers back a step, right into Maul's grip.

The flicker of Maul's emotion is all impatience, annoyance, and he pushes Feral back upright. “You are—” he starts.

But Feral is watching Savage’s face, the senator’s face. On the ground, Fox is just pulling himself up, and he’s in pain. He’s the one who got hurt earlier, who Feral felt suffering. Savage and Maul hurt him. They hurt him because they wanted to control the senator, because it was a good way to convince Plo to bargain.

This is all because of _Feral_.

“Maul,” he says, and his voice wavers, but he takes a breath, says more steadily, “Maul, Savage, we should leave. Let’s deal with Mother Talzin together. She can't—if we’re together, she won't—”

 _Control me_ , he wants to say, but his throat closes up before he can, and it’s hard to even breathe past the knot the words make.

There's a long, long moment of silence as Savage looks away. As Maul watches Feral, eyes narrowed, the roil of his emotions darkening until they're choking. Feral can hardly stand in the face of the pure _rage_ that curls around him, the threads of hatred.

“I think not,” Maul says, soft, and Feral goes cold right down to his bones.

“Maul—” he starts, “ _brother_ —”

“Not simply captured,” Maul says, pointed, carrying, “but _twisted_. What precisely have you done to my little brother, Plo Koon?”

There's a hum, light, almost amused. “Given that I had no awareness that he was your brother, Maul,” Plo says, “very little. Though seeing you together now, I must say, the resemblance is striking.”

Feral doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t look away. Turns his gaze on Plo to find him looking back, steady, set, his hands politely folded in his sleeves as he studies them.

From this distance, Feral can't see through Wolffe’s helmet, and he thinks he’s glad for it.

“I'm afraid I haven’t had as much time as I would like for _family_ matters,” Maul says, and his hand is tight on Feral’s elbow as he steps past, pushes him back a pace towards Savage. Feral _knows_ it’s not meant as a threat, but he can't help the way he tenses, every muscle locking up. Savage’s short breath says he noticed, too, but—

He’s still holding the senator, Fox frozen at his feet like he’s waiting for a kick but doesn’t dare move, and Feral wants to pull Savage away, wants to throw himself between Maul and Wolffe and Plo, but he can't move. There’s no correct path. There’s no _choice_.

Except Maul's lightsaber hums red, a wash of crimson in the daylight as he ignites it, and there's _only_ a choice.

“Reunions can be quite strenuous,” Plo agrees cordially, even as he puts a hand on the hilt of his lightsaber. There are two hanging from his sash, and Feral closes his eyes, tries to hold himself together. He wishes he hadn’t noticed, but—Plo is carrying _his_ lightsaber, too.

“Far _more_ strenuous when one of our number is kidnapped by a _Jedi_ ,” Maul says, _hisses_ , and a sound of alarm jars from Feral’s throat as Maul lunges, low and fast and deadly, blade spinning. Wolffe snarls a warning, but Plo is already moving, blue blade sweeping down to block. Feral doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but there’s fear snapping down his spine, and he takes a step—

And runs up against a huge hand wrapped tight around his shoulder.

“No, Feral,” Savage says, and even when Feral flinches he doesn’t let go. “Let them fight.”

Feral’s throat aches. He stares down at the shifting shadows on the pavement as blue and red light twists, then closes his eyes.

They're his brothers. They're his _brothers_.

Thirty thousand of Wolffe’s brothers died in a single day, and Maul and Savage have supported the side that killed them. Have killed clones just like them, as carelessly as Ventress killed the Nightbrothers.

“Savage,” he says, and his voice doesn’t crack. He lifts his head, and Plo twists beneath Maul's guard, throws him back only for Maul to kick him right into the stack of crates, but—

Wolffe is watching Feral, and he has one blaster out and at his side, though it hasn’t been aimed yet. Feral can't see his face, but he stares at the markings on his helmet, breathes in. Thinks of scars, and Wolffe curled around him in the darkness, promising to keep Mother Talzin out of his head, and his gruff kindness in the lift when Feral was panicking. Curls his hands into fists, and says, “Savage, let them go.”

There's a moment’s pause, like surprise. “They're leverage,” Savage finally says. “Feral, get aboard the ship. We’ll finish here.”

Finish by killing Plo, and Wolffe, and Sinker, and Comet. By likely killing the senator and Fox as well, just because they're in the way. Feral closes his eyes, then opens them, and watches Wolffe tip his head. Just a little, a small motion that’s halfway between confusion and realization, but—

“No,” Feral says, very quiet. How many clones, how many _people_ could he have saved if he’d tried a little harder to contain both Maul and Savage? The number is too high, regardless of what the actual figure is. “You won't.”

With a snarl, Maul spins, igniting the other half of his staff as he does, and Plo leaps back, off balance for half an instant as he tries to adjust to the change. One of Maul's metal legs catches him squarely in the face, and there's a crack of plastoid. Plo hits the ground hard, a piece of his rebreather dropping away as his lightsaber goes tumbling from his grip, and Maul spins his staff between his hands, smirk growing. A casual flick of his hand redirects a blaster bolt, a second, a third, and as Wolffe shouts and throws himself at Maul, Maul raises a hand. Wolffe chokes, grabbing for his throat as he’s lifted off his feet, and Feral feels his heart stop dead in his chest.

“Vengeance for my brother,” Maul says, lazy, and brings the blade down—

Feral spins, leaps, even as he throws up a hand. Savage goes flying back up the ramp of the ship as the senator ducks free, lunging for Fox. Without even pausing to look, Feral touches the Force, wrenches the second lightsaber free of Plo's belt, feels the hilt hit his hand, and ignites it even as he lands right in between Maul and Plo.

Crimson strikes scarlet, and Maul goes very, very still, staring across their crossed blades and right at Feral. He says nothing, and he doesn’t move, and Feral lifts his chin and meets Maul's dangerous gaze without wavering.

“Maul,” he says. “ _Enough_.”

The pace of his heartbeat is too quick, but the world feels like it’s in perfect definition, like all the fear has filtered away. Feral breathes out, and thinks of what he’s done, and—

It’s the only thing he _can_ do if he wants to think of himself as anything but a monster.

“ _Feral_ ,” Savage says, desperate, sharp, and Feral can hear him levering himself to his feet, even if he can't pull his gaze from Maul. And—it aches, that tone, a sharp kick behind his ribs that doesn’t let up, but Feral grits his teeth and raises his head.

“Maul,” he says, and he _knows_ that Maul won't accept any family, any _follower_ raising a blade against him, but he has to try. Has to hope even when it’s all but impossible that Maul will see reason. But even as he does, he reaches out, and he can't tear Wolffe out of Maul's grip but he can lift his weight, relieve some of the choking pressure on his throat. “You don’t need to do this. We can leave right now and they can't stop us.”

Behind Feral, Plo slowly, carefully pulls himself up to sit, broken rebreather hissing. He puts a hand up, covering the corner of his mouth and nose it exposes, but even though Kel Dor are impossibly tough Feral isn't sure how long he can last in an atmosphere full of oxygen. It adds an edge to his voice when he says, “ _Maul_ ,” and shoves forward, pushing Maul back a step and disengaging their blades.

Maul takes the step back, then another, and his eyes are burning. Not Zabrak gold. Not quite. _Sith_ gold, and Feral can feel the weight of his fury like nails against his skin.

“A true betrayal,” he says, low, silken. “Is this how quickly your sentiment fades, Feral? A week without us and you’ve turned your back on your own blood.”

“I'm not turning my back on you,” Feral says, and it’s a challenge. He grips the hilt of his lightsaber more tightly, breathes through the anger at Maul for doing this. For _forcing_ him to this. He doesn’t _want_ to have to stop them. And maybe it’s the leftover dreams of a child wanting to escape to Iridonia, for him and his big brother to be free of the Nightsisters and away from the struggles, but—he and Maul both got a second chance. Why can't they take advantage of that? Why can't they _do_ something with that that isn't serving the Sith?

Maul's gaze slides pointedly from Feral’s lightsaber to Plo, then up to his face. “ _Really_ ,” he drawls, and it’s full of poison.

Feral doesn’t let himself flinch. “I love you,” he says. “You're my _brother_. But—what you're doing is _wrong_.”

Rage twists Maul's face, and he laughs. “ _Love_ ,” he mocks. “A useful feeling, to tie you to us. Tell me, Feral, how long has it been since Savage has looked at you?”

The words are barbed, and it feels like they tear his chest right open. Feral falters before he can stop himself, twitches back—

A sharp _snap_ of intent pierces Maul's anger, and Feral moves on instinct, blade already rising to meet Maul's as it starts to swing. The lightsabers hiss as they collide, and Feral drops low beneath the other end of the blade, twists, leaps high and right over it to land behind Maul. Maul spins, too fast, but Feral’s seen this. They’ve had this fight before. Never with intent to kill, never _real_ , but—Feral knows this fight. He’s _lost_ this fight, every time he’s gone up against Maul in the past.

He can't afford to lose it this time.

With a snarl, Maul slams into him, lightsabers locked, but Feral lets him. He folds back, drops, hits the ground on his back as Maul tries to recover and gets a foot in his chest. Momentum makes it easy; Feral tosses Maul right over his head, twists to his feet, and catches the next blow half a second before it would have hit him. Redirects it, ducking to the side, and makes Maul turn to follow him, quick steps retreating towards the center of the open space. Wolffe is still fighting, still struggling, and Feral wants to tell Maul to let him go, but—

Showing that Wolffe is important to him seems like the very worst idea right now, when Maul is so angry. Feral knows better.

“Do you truly believe you can win?” Maul asks softly, like he’s curious, like Feral can't feel the calculation in him, cold and wrathful. He spins his staff, and it’s meant to be an intimidation, showy and lazy and cumbersome-looking enough to make his opponent underestimate him, but Feral knows just how quickly he can move, knows the gesture just adds momentum and power to the blow that’s coming. “You’ve always been a poor student.”

“You're right,” Feral says just as quietly. “I have. But that won't stop me.”

Maul laughs. It’s not a kind sound. “Quite the luck, in this family,” he says, cold. “My elder brother is a monster, and my younger brother is a mouse.”

Feral takes a breath, flicks a half-second glance towards Savage where he’s still frozen on the ramp. Thinks of gentleness, and Savage wrapping him in blankets, and the way Savage used to laugh before everything went wrong.

“There’s only one monster in our family,” Feral says, and means it. “And it’s not any of us.”

Something flickers across Maul's face, like the words have caught him off guard. He doesn’t say anything, just circles, slow and predatory steps as Feral turns to match him. There's a shout from somewhere close by, but Feral can't sense anyone approaching, doesn’t dare look away from Maul again. He keeps his gaze on Maul, slides back and further away from Wolffe, and says, “Maul, please. I don’t want to fight you.”

Maul scoffs, loud and derisive. “You don’t want to _lose_ ,” he says silkily. “Understandable, in one of your…ability.”

It’s a barb that hits home, but—that’s fine. Feral doesn’t want the ability to kill his brother, even with all of this. He just wants to keep Maul from—

“Well?” Maul asks pointedly, but he’s not talking to Feral.

There's a step, a pause. Savage hesitates for a long moment before he slowly, carefully descends the ramp, boots loud on the pavement. “Feral,” he says, a helpless sort of warning.

“I don’t care,” Feral says, which is a lie. He _does_ care. If Savage decides to fight him—

Except it’s the truth, too. If Savage decides to fight him, Feral will fight back, even though he’ll be hopelessly outmatched. He can't just let them win. Not when they're going to kill everyone here.

“I don’t care,” he says again, more steadily. “I won't let you do this. I'm—I'm not going to fight for the Separatists. Or for _you_ , brother, if you want to help them.”

“So you chose to betray us instead.” Maul twists his staff through his hands again, and his smirk is cold, the look on his face deadly. “I believe you must be taught a lesson, Feral. Savage.”

Savage looks between them for an endless second, expression twisted like he’s in pain. “Maul,” he finally says, low, “we shouldn’t—”

Maul growls, low, and says, “He will _survive_ his lesson. Assuming, of course, that you can control yourself, Savage.”

Savage flinches, taking a step back, but he reaches for his lightsaber, draws it. “Give this up, Feral,” he says roughly. “You can't—”

Maul spins in, the thrust of his blade almost too quick to see. It’s a furious blow, deliberately dangerous, and Feral throws himself to the side, away from Wolffe and Plo, rises and swings, and Maul slides beneath the blow, twists, lashes out. His foot just misses Feral’s shoulder as Feral leaps back, but instead of retreating Feral pushes forward, blow after blow aimed squarely at Maul's blade as he forces him back. Maul gives ground, snarls, disengages with a showy sweep of his lightsaber that almost forces Feral’s right out of his hands, and Feral lets it go. Drops it, leaps right over Maul's head as the sudden lack of resistance makes him stagger, and calls it back to his hand as he lands. One step sideways—

Savage’s blade slams into his with all the force of Savage’s new strength behind it, and Feral doesn’t try to block, doesn’t hold, but gives, letting Savage sweep his blade around as he leaps away. Spins it around, ducks Maul's kick, and sees his opening as Savage lunges and Maul has to pull up to avoid him. Flipping his lightsaber to his left hand, he rises, throws an elbow hard, and hits Maul right in the spine. Maul goes down with a snarl, and meters away Wolffe hits the ground too, choking and coughing as he tries to breathe. But he’s _alive_ , and that thought comes with a flare of victory as Feral rises. And even though it puts him right in range of Savage’s swing, it’s worth it.

Savage’s fist catches him in the face, and Feral can only move with it so much. The burst of pain is expected, accounted for, as is the way it lifts him right off his feet and sends him rolling across the ground with sparks of green-gold spinning behind his eyes. But—

Savage has been bigger than him all their lives. This is just like taking a punch when he hit his growth spurt and Feral hadn’t yet. That’s all it is.

Feral uses the momentum, twists to his feet. Stumbles, dropping to one knee, and catches himself, breathing hard. The whole side of his face feels numb, and there's blood in his mouth, but he raises his head, staggers to his feet, and raises his lightsaber again. Maul is rising, too, advancing, and Savage is right behind his shoulder, huge and grim-faced like Feral can't feel the way he’s reeling inside.

Feral looks from Maul to Savage, then raises his chin and brings his lightsaber up, gripping the hilt with both hands. Closes his eyes, breathes in, exhales, and lets the other half of the blade hiss to life in a wash of red light.

“Leave,” he says. “Leave them alone, leave this _planet_. This is your last warning.”

“ _Our_ last warning?” Maul asks, cruelly amused. “Feral, little brother. I think time with the Jedi has left you disconnected from this universe.”

“No,” Feral says quietly, and watches them close in. “It just made me realize that I couldn’t just follow along after you anymore.”

“Hardly a loss,” Maul says dismissively—

A blaster bolt just skims his cheek as he jerks to the side.

“Shut the hell up,” Wolffe grates out, ragged, gravel-rough, as he braces himself at Feral’s side. He has his blasters up and aimed, unwavering even now, and behind him Feral catches a flash of Comet throwing himself down next to Plo, digging through his pack. “I'm tired of hearing you talk.”

Feral’s breath jars from his lungs, and he closes his eyes for just a moment, dizzy with what could be relief or nerves or both. There are a hundred thousand things he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, but no space for them, no way to get them out, and he glances sideways, takes Wolffe in, and opens his mouth.

“Save it,” Wolffe says curtly, and the abrasive edges of his emotions are like sandpaper against Feral’s senses. He winces, but—something like that is probably to be expected. He can hardly blame Wolffe.

“Yes, do,” Maul says, sounding bored. He catches Feral’s gaze, and says, “Clones die easily, little brother. If you're going to pick a pet, pick a hardier one.”

Anger flickers, rises, and Feral breathes through it, pushes it back down. Rage swims green and poisonous in his mind, and—

“They do, don’t they?” a voice drawls, and Savage goes stiff, just as Feral freezes, heartbeat tripping. He can't move, can't breathe—

Wolffe grabs him. Wolffe snatches him around the waist, hauls him sideways as he dives to the side, and Feral deactivates his lightsaber at the last moment, lets them hit and roll in a tangle, and twists up into a crouch with both halves lit as he sets himself in front of Wolffe, feet planted. Wants to pull Savage behind him as well, but—he’s too far away, and between them is the one person Feral hates as much as Mother Talzin.

“What a reaction,” Ventress says, mocking, but her gaze is on Feral as she ignites her lightsaber, stalking across the open ground. “Just for me? I'm _flattered_.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : There's a reference made in this chapter to a canon event that is of dubious sexual consent at _best_. If that's going to upset you, please be aware.

“Well now, _this_ is familiar,” Ventress says, low, and her smile makes Feral’s skin crawl. She’s dressed like a Nightsister, the same way she was when she first came to the village except for the addition of three cords with dangling amulets hanging around her neck, and her eyes go right to Feral across the open ground. “Last time there were more of you, though.”

Nightbrothers. She means the Nightbrothers, and Feral can't breathe. She killed people he grew up with, _friends_ , when she came looking for her champion. She all but killed _Savage_ , for all that he’s still walking. And having her here, now—

“Asajj Ventress,” Maul says, precise, and gives her a sweeping look from top to bottom that slides towards complete dismissal. “You are not needed here.”

Ventress snorts, gaze finally pulling away from Feral. Her eyes slide over Plo as Comet helps him fit a replacement rebreather on, then past them to Maul. To _Savage_. Her mouth curves, and it’s somewhere between a smile and a predator’s bared teeth. “Mate, there you are.”

Savage flinches, stepping back, and Maul steps smoothly into the gap, eyes narrowed.

“This is a family matter, Ventress,” he says. “Take yourself elsewhere.”

Ventress laughs, like she’s delighted by the implied threat, and cocks her head. “Aren’t I family?” she asks. “By tradition if nothing else. Even if you _did_ leave me to die against Dooku, dear heart.”

Savage isn't looking at her. He isn't looking at anything; his eyes are fixed on a middle distance, somewhere over the ships, and he’s not moving. Feral sinks his teeth into his lip, and—he doesn’t want Savage hurt in any way. And he hasn’t _seen_ Savage and Ventress interact, but—

 _Mate_ , he thinks, and his stomach turns. She called him _mate_ , and maybe with anyone else in the universe it would be different, but she was _controlling_ Savage. He was practically her puppet. Either she bedded him before the ritual, which is bad enough, or after, when he was all but her toy.

“Did Mother Talzin send you?” he asks, and refuses to waver when she glances sidelong at him, eyes narrowing faintly.

“I'm here on Nightsister business,” Ventress says, which is a confirmation even if she won't say it out loud. “You can run right along, Master Koon. I need a word with our wayward Nightbrothers.”

Feral’s skin crawls at the possessive, at the implied threat. Mother Talzin wanted something enough that she sent Ventress here to get it, and that can't mean anything good.

And then a blaster rises, right beside him. Tilts, a threat, and Wolffe takes one step to the side and aims right for Ventress’s skull. “You,” he growls. “Freeze.”

Ventress cocks her head, studying him as she advances, and Feral grits his teeth so hard his head aches. “Me,” she echoes, amused. “Do I know you, clone? You seem a little angry at me.”

Those word ricochet through Wolffe like a shot, and Feral can _feel_ them hit, can feel the way Wolffe almost jerks back. Denial crests, fury, _hatred_ , so intense it blurs Feral’s vision, and Wolffe’s breath rattles from his lungs. For a moment Feral thinks he’s going to wrench his helmet off and show her the evidence of them meeting, but he doesn’t. Tamps down the urge, strangles it, and warns, “Not one step closer.”

Looking amused, Ventress comes to a halt, narrowed eyes flickering between Wolffe and Feral. “You really did get a pet,” she says, and it’s cold, sharp enough to make Feral flinch. Or maybe that’s the tension winding up his spine, tightening muscles until the tension rings through his head like a migraine. “Did you ask your mother first?”

“What do you want with us?” Feral asks, and it’s a miracle that his voice stays steady. On the other side of the open space, Maul takes a deliberate step forward, lightsaber still lit, but Ventress doesn’t so much as acknowledge him.

“Want?” Ventress asks, sweetly mocking. “Mother Talzin heard you disappeared. It would be a tragedy if her youngest son was snatched by the _Jedi_ , so I came to look for you. I'm so glad you seem to be doing well.”

Carefully, just ever so faintly unsteady on his feet, Plo rises. Comet is right beside him, hand under his arm, clearly ready to grab him, but Plo doesn’t seem bothered. “Her son? Ah,” he says with an air of enlightenment. “Such maternal care.”

“Talzin loves all three of her sons,” Ventress says sweetly. “Even if she was eternally disappointed not to bear a girl.”

Across the yard, Savage grimaces, head ducking. He shifts, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Stays silent, huge but hunched in on himself, and Feral can't help but catch Maul's eyes across the space. His are narrowed, hostile, and Feral bites his lip and then says, quiet, “Mother Talzin is the one who sent me here the first time. But how did _you_ know I’d be here this time?”

Plo's attention sharpens, and he steps forward, away from Comet. “An interesting question,” he says, light, even though his deep voice rasps in a way it normally doesn’t. “And one I would be most interested to hear an answer to.”

Ventress flicks him a wary glance, shifting faintly to keep both him and Maul in her line of sight. “I'm sure you’d like to know,” she drawls, but focuses on Feral again. “You remember your mission?” she asks, and it’s lazy except for the look on her face. “Well. It seems Mother Talzin overestimated your uselessness.”

It’s meant to sting, but—Feral has never, ever wanted to be of use to Mother Talzin, and he tips his chin up, unwilling to be cowed. “Good,” he says, and doesn’t bother to tell her that he doesn’t remember the mission here at all.

Ventress snorts, resting a hand on her hip. “Speaking like that to the leader? I think you’ve been away from Dathomir too long, sweetheart.”

“Not long enough,” Wolffe says curtly, and his blaster shifts, leveled right at Ventress’s throat. “Undo the mark on him.”

Her eyes narrow, one quick flicker of malice and suspicion rising like a flare before it’s controlled. “You're ordering _me_ around? A clone? How cute.”

“I am loathe to agree with any companion of a _Jedi_ ,” Maul says, silken, and advances across the space, staff twisting lazily through his fingers. “However, I believe I can say of my own volition here, Asajj. Release Feral from this mark.”

Instead of giving ground, Ventress turns to face him, her smirk twisting into something cruel. “I don’t take orders from _males_ , no matter what training you’ve had, Maul.”

“More training than you can dream of,” Maul says, low and dangerous, and his eyes burn gold. “More training than your fallen Jedi master could imagine in the darkest depths of his corrupted dreams. Do not test me, witch.”

Ventress laughs, pulling her hood back. “Test you?” she purrs. “Oh, _I_ would never.”

Feral’s fear spikes, and he makes the split-second calculation to move, leaping for Ventress even as she reaches up. Maul sees him coming, eyes going wide, and Ventress spins, red blade lashing up with a speed that Feral can barely meet. He spins his staff, sweeps it low, and Ventress leaps it, twists over his head and lands, batting the other end away with a smirk as she takes a deliberate step back.

“So _aggressive_ ,” she taunts. “This fight didn’t go so well for you last time, did it, _Feral_?”

Feral doesn’t answer, doesn’t waver. He lunges, and Ventress parries, twists past a thrust sweeps her lightsaber right at Feral’s throat—

A blaster shot makes her redirect at the last possible moment, and Feral takes advantage, pressing, shoving her back with three quick blows she has to hurry to counter, and the staff is unwieldy, heavy, but Feral twists it up, drops low as Ventress slashes at his stomach, and then rocks back and flips over her head. He lands already turning, and as her red blade blocks one side of the staff he slashes the other half down at her ribs.

At the same moment, another shot sounds, and something burns blue.

With a snarl, Ventress spins to catch Plo's blade, then kicks out and twists up, knocking him back and throwing herself over Feral’s head before he can dodge. Her elbow hits him right in the spine, throwing him to the ground, and he rolls, rises, blocks another strike before she turns to meet Plo. Plo sweeps in, driving her away and right into a spinning staff—

Not Feral’s. Maul's.

With a growl, Maul throws Ventress back, only to have her twist low, slam a foot against his thigh and send him staggering. Something grinds, metal on metal, and Ventress laughs as Maul hits the ground on one knee.

“Things I can't even dream of?” she mocks. “Like winning duels, _Maul_? It seems you're quite bad at that.”

Maul snarls, catching her blade on his own, and Feral doesn’t pause. Maul is cruel, but Maul is his _brother_ , and he slams bodily into Ventress as she strains, topples her into the ground and flips back to his feet with a twist, catching her strike, her second, redirecting her thrust. She smirks at him, wide and vicious, bats away a bolt aimed at her head, and says, “Oh, the kitten thinks he has _teeth_.”

Feral catches her kick on his forearm, but she uses the momentum, leaps over him again, and he only just manages to catch her blow in time, strong enough to knock him back. His foot hits loose gravel and he staggers, but Plo slides right between him and Ventress, drives her back with a burning blur of blades. In the same moment, a hand closes around Feral’s elbow, hauling him upright, and Wolffe drags him back a step, keeps him upright, and says, “ _You_ shouldn’t be fighting her.”

Feral catches his breath. “Of course I should,” he counters, and gently brushes Wolffe’s hand off his arm. “I have to help them.”

“General Koon is doing just fine,” Wolffe says, curt, but he lets go without protest and flanks Feral as Feral circles around the edge of the twisting clash of lightsabers. Plo is—an impressive swordsman. He’s forcing Ventress back, even though she’s quick and clever, and Feral flicks a glance at Maul, finds him just hauling himself back to his feet, and feels a flicker of something like deep-seated and desperate hope. If the three of them fight together—

There's a sound of fury, and Feral jerks back just in time to see Ventress leap high, flip, land on the stack of crates Maul was posing on before, well out of reach. When Plo takes a step after her, she raises a hand, smirking.

“Three and a half on one doesn’t seem like a fair fight, now, does it?” she purrs, and Wolffe’s grip tightens on his blasters, the wash of contained violence through him almost jarring.

“Perhaps you should surrender, then,” Plo invites, perfectly amiable even as he keeps his lightsaber raised and ready. “Then there will not be a fight at all.”

Ventress snorts, but her smirk widens. “As expected of a Jedi, Plo Koon. But I have a better way of evening the odds.” She reaches up, but instead of going for a comm the way Feral expects, she sets a hand on one of the necklaces she’s wearing, dragging her fingers across them and then picking up two of them by their cords. The pendants dangle, heavy and swaying, black stone that shimmers green, and Feral’s stomach twists. Just looking at them makes him feel dizzy, and he closes his eyes, shakes his head.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, green sparks surge into a bonfire.

“Wolffe,” he says, low, desperate as alarm flares, and reaches out. Clutches armor, tight, and tries to focus on anything but the pooling green in his mind, and Wolffe takes one look at his face and curses. Grabs for one of the pouches on his belt, but—

The pendants flare sickly green and _burning_ , and that same green swallows Feral’s whole world before he can even brace himself for the wave.

Wolffe should have known it was going to go this way the instant Ventress showed up.

He curses, spins. There's a half-second opening as Feral staggers, knees seeming to give way, and Wolffe takes full advantage. He hits Feral around the waist, tackles him to the ground, and Feral goes down with a ragged cry that’s half his own. He lashes out, but his eyes are going green already, that acid-shade eating away the gold, and Wolffe dodges a punch, grits his teeth, grabs a wrist. Feral twists, as slippery as an eel, but Wolffe remembers their match just this morning in the training hall, and he grabs Feral’s arm, rolls with the motion, and slams Feral down into the stone with all of his weight on top of him.

There's a jerk, a cry, a _snarl._ Wolffe glances up, gets an eyeful of one kriffing _huge_ Zabrak bearing down on him with lightsaber lit, and thinks for half an instant that of all the ways to die, this is probably the least dignified. But—

Feral twists under him, and Wolffe slams him into the ground, grabs for the preloaded cartridge in his belt pouch, and flips it up. Catches it, calculates how long he has before Savage turns him into stew meat—

A blaster fires from somewhere high up, and Savage is thrown back as it takes him in the shoulder. He hits the ground, and Wolffe hisses out a breath that’s all thanks for Sinker’s skill with a sniper rifle and slams the cartridge home in Feral’s throat, just as Feral’s lightsaber skids across the ground towards his outstretched hand.

Feral jerks, shudders. A whine breaks from his throat, high and pained, and Wolffe curses, grabs for another cartridge. Payback calculated for a Zabrak of Feral’s size and weight, but whatever Nightsister bantha shit is riding Feral right now is too much. He’s still struggling, though more weakly, and his lightsaber is rolling across the stone in slow motion, like it’s being drawn by a magnet.

Grimly, Wolffe tosses the used cartridge, slots another home. In the same moment, there's another snarl, and meters away Savage stumbles to his feet, breathing hard, bleeding, clutching at the wound in his shoulder. He pulls himself upright, eyes locked on Wolffe, and Wolffe grits his teeth, ignores the fear, and focuses on Feral. Presses the hypo against his throat, triggers it, and feels Feral’s shuddering cry just as much as he hears it.

But Feral goes still. He slumps to the ground with a low moan, fingers clawing desperately for a moment before he stops moving.

Across the handful of meters that separate them, Savage’s eyes go wide, and a sound of sheer denial tears out of him. He growls, igniting the second half of his lightsaber in a wash of red, and charges.

Golden eyes flare green, and Wolffe has half a second to calculate the odds that he can get the other four hypos into _Savage’s_ neck before he comes to the conclusion that doing that will just get him killed. He curses, not about to leave Feral, unconscious and vulnerable, in front of one of his karking _brothers_ , both of them Sith, and raises his blasters.

Savage sidesteps the first shot, bats the second away, but from somewhere high up another shot sounds, and this time it takes Savage in the leg. He hits the ground on one knee, and with smooth precision Plo slides into the gap between him and Wolffe and Feral, perfectly poised.

“Commander?” he asks politely, even as Savage growls and hauls himself to his feet again.

“He’s out,” Wolffe says shortly, thinks about rising, and instead just slides off Feral’s limp form, kneeling next to him. “But Savage’s eyes are green.”

Plo hums, lightsaber leveled across his body. “So they are,” he says thoughtfully. “Pain, it seems, is also not a deterrent for you, is it?”

Savage doesn’t answer. He’s breathing hard, but his gaze is focused on Plo, and from above them, there’s a laugh.

“A _lovely_ puppet, isn't he?” Ventress mocks, and kicks Maul in the chest. He staggers, but immediately swings for her head again, blindingly quick, and she only just manages to counter. Over their locked blades, Maul _hisses_ , and the sound carries.

“ _Release them_ ,” he says, a threat, and the silk is gone from his voice, the control starting to fracture. “They are _mine_!”

“They were mine first,” Ventress mocks, and spins low, sweeping her lightsaber out. As Maul leaps it, she surges up, flips him over her shoulder and right off the stack of crates, and Maul twists and only just manages to land on his feet. He staggers, then straightens, and his gaze is burning as he locks it on Ventress.

“They were never yours,” he says, low, and Wolffe never thought he’d agree with fracking _Maul_ on any one thing in all the galaxy, but—this he agrees on.

Ventress snorts, spinning her lightsaber. “I think you’ll find they're _absolutely_ mine,” she says, and her smirk slants into something dark and pleased.

Maul hisses, and one strong leap carries him back to the top of the crates. He and Ventress crash together, red blades a tangle of light between them, and Maul snarls, “Talzin _will_ answer for this—”

With a laugh, Ventress leaps back, disengaging their blades with a twist. She flips, leaps down the crates and lands, just as Savage surges forward into Plo. Wolffe curses, grabbing Feral—

A shadow falls over him, and Wolffe fires with both pistols before he even raises his head.

The blue bolts bury themselves in the ground a meter away, and Ventress says, “Hand him over and I’ll make your death quick.”

 _Like Colt's?_ Wolffe wants to say, but—she doesn’t remember him. She doesn’t even care that much, and she cut Wolffe’s eye out of his head slowly and deliberately, just to hurt him. The odds that she’d remember Colt, impaled on her lightsaber and terrified as she _kissed_ him while he died, are slim to none.

“I believe,” Maul says, deliberate, from behind her, “that you have much more important things to be concerned about at this moment.”

Ventress stiffens, turns. Brings her lightsaber up, and Wolffe doesn’t hesitate. He lunges to grab Feral’s, finds the buttons, deactivates it and shoves it through his belt so one of the Sith can't grab it and use it. Doesn’t think about Feral fighting by the comm tower, and how none of them _knew_ he was carrying a double-bladed lightsaber, because he never even tried to use it, even when he was about to be captured.

Lightning crackles, loud, and Wolffe jerks his head up just in time to see Plo leap three long strides away from Savage, electricity blooming from his fingertips. It washes out like a shield, and Savage bulls right into it as he follows, cries out. Hits the ground on his knees, and Plo takes the opening, spins in. Wolffe considers distance for a brief second, but—Plo's too far away to throw the hypo to, and Ventress and Maul are in the way, still in their standoff. With a muttered curse, Wolffe shoves it back into his pouch, then gets an arm under Feral, hauls him up over one shoulder, and struggles to his feet.

Across the gravel, Maul watches him, eyes hard and cold, but he’s not moving.

“Mother Talzin will hear of this, Asajj,” Maul warns, soft, and Ventress laughs bitterly.

“Mother Talzin asked me to do her a favor here,” she retorts. “Bringing her wayward sons back into line. They're both such good little puppets, aren’t they, Maul?”

Maul growls, advancing a step, but Ventress matches him in retreat, her smile cruel. “What?” she taunts lazily. “Both of them owe what they are to Nightsister magics. Both of them carry our magic in their _souls_.”

“They are _mine,_ ” Maul snarls, and leaps for her. Ventress doesn’t even try to meet him; she flips over his head, darts away, and laughs.

“You’d do well to remember that you _also_ owe what you are to us,” she says, and touches the third pendant around her neck, smirking as Maul draws up short. “You had us in your head for so long, Maul, how could you _forget_? We _fixed_ you.”

Kriff, Wolffe thinks, and ducks behind the curve of another ship, dropping to one knee and dumping Feral on the ground. The _last_ thing they need right now is Maul getting brainwashed into the same state as Savage. He glances back, checking Plo, and gets a blur of black and yellow and burning blue as Savage drives Plo towards the other side of the space, strikes brutal and unhesitating. Plo hardly looks like he’s in danger, though; he’s parrying easily, letting himself be pushed, and Wolffe _knows_ his general, knows that expression of polite concentration. Plo's planning something.

With a clatter of armor and metal, Sinker drops from the wing of the ship, landing hard, then straightening. He crosses quickly to Wolffe’s side, leaning down to touch Feral’s throat, and Wolffe doesn’t protest. He glances down at Feral as well, breathing in, and—

Feral’s face is twisted, pained. His breathing hitches, and he trembles all over, like whatever’s happening in his head is terrible enough for it to affect him in the real world.

“Bantha shit,” Sinker says, grim, and straightens. “Think it’s because he’s so close that it’s not working?”

Wolffe grimaces, but—that would make sense. Last time, they were in hyperspace, and the Nightsisters’ hold was broken relatively easily. This time, Ventress is the source of the magic, or at least a channel for it, and she’s so close Wolffe could spit on her. “If it is, we’re going to have to figure out how to fling all three of them into hyperspace,” he says darkly. “I've only got four tranqs left, and I think Savage would need ten.”

“From the looks of him? At _least_ ,” Sinker agrees, pulling a face. Then he pauses, and says flatly, “ _Three_.”

“Three necklaces, three Nightbrothers,” Wolffe reminds him, and loads another hypo. He didn’t ask Payback how long they’d last, because he’d thought just knocking Feral out would be enough, but now he’s regretting that. if he needs to _keep_ Feral sedated, he’s going to burn through the damn things like tissues.

“Karking hells,” Sinker mutters, and ducks around the corner. His blaster fires twice before he’s ducking back, flattening himself against the side of the ship. “The _last_ thing we need is all three of them losing their minds.”

That will turn the odds against them instantly. As much as Wolffe hates thinking of Maul as any sort of ally, he clearly hates Ventress, is willing to fight her to get Savage and Feral back, and that makes him close enough to being one right now. Plo is one of the best, but even he can't fight Maul and Savage _and_ Ventress at the same time.

With a grim breath, Wolffe glances down at Feral, slumped against the ship, and then closes his eyes. Tries to think, tries to plan, but—

With a rustle of skirts and almost-silent steps, Senator Amidala slides around the edge of the next ship over, supporting Fox. She has a blaster out and ready, something small but clearly powerful, her other hand hooked under Fox’s good arm, and her mouth is set in a fierce line. Wolffe won't deny the way his chest kicks, and he rises, reaches out, grabs Fox before he even bothers to greet the senator. Fox lets out a rough breath, but he slumps into Wolffe’s hold, taps their foreheads together.

“ _Vod_ ,” Wolffe says, and nothing else. That’s enough.

“You're _late_ ,” Fox says, always a bastard, and Wolffe rolls his eyes and shoves him lightly back into Senator Amidala’s hold.

“I was dealing with a Sith,” he says, which is only a mild exaggeration. “While _you_ were busy being kidnapped like a damsel in a bad holo.”

“I think that was me,” Amidala says, dry, and flicks a brief glance at Feral before she looks back at Wolffe. “Do we get away? Or try to stop them?”

“Backup’s on the way,” Sinker says, though Wolffe can hear in his tone that he knows as well as Wolffe does how little that will actually do. More fodder for Ventress and Maul, more collateral for Plo to worry about. There's no good way to kill a Sith without a Jedi. Multiple Jedi, even.

Wolffe mutters a curse. “Fox, get her out of here,” he says curtly, and jerks his head at Sinker, who rises easily.

Amidala hesitates, but she doesn’t protest, even though her mouth tightens. Wolffe tends to think politicians are useless, but—that maybe bumps her up in his estimation. Just a bit.

“Fine,” Fox says, but he’s watching Amidala as well, and when she steps closer, he lets her take his good arm again, even though Wolffe _knows_ what a pain tolerance he has. “Don’t get your idiot head cut off. Your helmet’s all hot air and it’ll just float away.”

Wolffe flips him off, but waits until they're moving to take a step—

“Ah, there you are,” Ventress purrs, and half a moment later she lands in front of them, lightsaber burning, eyes dark. “Trying to steal your master away, _pet_? He’s cute, I’ll give you that.”

Sinker spins, fires, but Ventress flicks a hand, and with a cry he’s hurled back, thrown clear across the open space behind them and right into Plo. Wolffe doesn’t even bother with his blasters. He drops one, grabs for his vibroblade, and lunges, slamming her arm up as he ducks beneath her guard. She’s faster, but he’s bigger, and he rams shoulder-first into her chest before she can dodge, tosses her back and grabs for Feral, hauling him up and bolting. Back out where Maul can see them seems like the best bet, and—

Savage has Sinker by the throat, suspended off the ground, and Plo is pulling himself slowly and painfully back to his feet, a cauterized burn all too clear in his robes where they fall over his ribs.

There's a half-second to move, but too many choices, too many ways to go. Wolffe looks across the port, heart pounding fury and fear all tangled up in his throat, and doesn’t know what to do.

With a crunch of stone, Ventress follows with slow, swaying steps, like the movement itself is a taunt. “Oh _no_ ,” she drawls, eyes alight with humor. “It looks like you’re out of options, pet.”


	19. Chapter 19

Sinker’s getting really tired of Sith tossing him around like a ragdoll.

It’s not a thought that’s fair to Feral, probably, but at this point, with Savage Opress’s hand tight around his throat and his general on the ground behind him, Sinker’s not feeling overly fussed about particulars right now. He claws at the huge hand wrapped around his neck, refusing to drop his blaster even if he doesn’t have the breath to raise and aim it right now, even if dark spots are spinning in front of his eyes. Savage is just watching him, expression the same dark blankness as Feral’s was when the Nightsisters were in his head, and Sinker is terrified, is _angry_ , just wants to _breathe_ —

Plo rises, a whirl of brown robes and blurring motion, and one hand flashes up. Sinker knows his general well enough to brace, even halfway to unconscious, and he digs his fingers into Savage’s wrist, wrenches at his fingers. In the same moment, Plo slashes a hand sideways, and the air _pops_. Sinker’s next breath clouds in the air in a rush of frost, and it’s suddenly so cold it’s _painful_. He gasps, the freezing air like knives in his chest, but he _can_ breathe, because Savage jerks, his grip slipping.

Sinker hits the ground in a heap, head spinning, and lashes out instantly, twisting around and slamming both of his boots straight into the backs of Savage’s knees. Savage topples forward, and Sinker makes himself a tripwire, fouls Savage’s feet as he stumbles and then wrenches around, hitting him in the backs of the thighs. Savage topples, and Sinker rolls clear, shoves up to his feet and brings his blaster up. His vision swims, but it’s not like Savage is a vanishingly small target; Sinker just aims for center mass—

That horned head turns, and Sinker catches a flash of eyes gone poison-green, just like Feral’s.

It’s instinct. It’s _madness_ that has Sinker’s finger sliding off the trigger before he can take the shot. Savage is on the ground, breathing hard, with frost spreading across his skin, and his expression is twisted like he’s in pain. Sinker saw his reaction when Wolffe drugged Feral, saw the lack of comprehension that turned into pure terror and fury, like Wolffe had just cut Feral’s throat in front of him.

Feral’s talked about his brother. And given Maul's everything, Sinker’s willing to bet the brother Feral generally means is Savage. Is willing to bet, too, that even if Savage is a Sith, there's _something_ in him that cares about Feral the same way Feral does about him. And knowing that, even with all the clones Savage has killed—

Knowing that, Sinker can't pull the trigger.

It’s not just for Feral’s sake. Something in Sinker twists, sick and disgusted, at the thought of killing a man whose brain is being played with like a puppet on a string. Ventress deserves the blaster bolt for this, and they deserve someone who can stomp her into the ground, and if Sinker kills Savage the odds that Maul will turn on them immediately are high. Sinker’s used to making those kinds of calculations on the fly, figuring out the most valuable allies and targets on any given battlefield.

This calculation just happens to have more immediate risk attached.

Savage doesn’t immediately spin around and flatten Sinker, though. He lies where he fell, breath rasping loud and quick, and he shakes his head. His fingers dig into the gravel, scrape, and he groans, a low, wounded animal noise that makes the back of Sinker’s neck prickle. That’s not a good sound, but—not dangerous, maybe.

With a heavy step, Plo shifts back, pressing a hand to his side even as he wavers. “Sergeant,” he says, a low warning. “If you would move—”

“Sorry, General, one second.” Sinker grips his blaster, takes a breath, and calls himself an idiot, but he carefully steps around Savage until he can crouch down right in front of him, directly in his line of sight. Those burning green eyes lock on him, and Savage growls, nails digging into the dirt like he’s about to surge up and rip Sinker’s head clear off his body—

“Feral’s all right,” Sinker says, and Savage goes very, very still.

“Ah,” Plo says, soft, and Sinker can almost hear his smile. “As you were, Sergeant.”

“Thanks, sir,” Sinker says ruefully, glad that _one_ of them has faith in him. Still, he leans forward, makes sure Savage is tracking him, and says as clearly as he can, “Wolffe put Feral to sleep for a bit. So he wouldn’t be controlled by Ventress.”

Savage’s features twist, pained, and he shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of a mental fog. Grimaces, grunts, and ducks his head, but—

There's a flicker of gold in his eyes that Sinker is sure he’s not imagining.

No mark on Savage, Sinker thinks, and tightens his grip on his blaster. Whatever else the Nightsisters did to Savage, they didn’t brand him the way they did Feral. And whether that’s what makes him able to fight the control or not, it’s clear he _is_ fighting, and Sinker will take it.

“Feral is alive,” he says again, and Savage takes a shudder breath. “He’s not hurt. He was with us, but he’s fine. Wolffe sedated him. When he wakes up, Ventress won't be in his head anymore.”

A hand settles on Sinker’s shoulder, and Plo carefully, gingerly crouches down next to him, reaching out with deliberate slowness. “If you would allow me, Savage,” he says politely, “I believe I can assist you in what you're currently attempting.”

Savage’s eyes flicker from Sinker to Plo, then slide shut. “Her­— _out_ ,” he grits out, barely understandable through his clenched teeth, and Plo immediately takes that as invitation. He reaches out, pressing the heel of his hand to Savage’s forehead, and Sinker tenses automatically, ready to drag him out of the way, but there's a crackle like static in the still air, a jerk. Savage twitches, eyes rolling back in his head, and he collapses in front of them, sparks scattering over his skin for a moment before they vanish.

With a heavy breath, Plo sits back on his heels, and Sinker knows him well enough to see the strain in his face. “Well,” he says judiciously, and shakes out his fingertips like the electricity is lingering in them. “I believe that we are down a problem, at least for the moment.”

“Not a long moment,” Sinker says, watching Savage’s face twist even in unconsciousness. He glances at his blaster, then back at Savage, and breathes out.

Savage has killed clones. He’s killed _Jedi_. He’s a dangerous enemy. By all rights, they should just…make sure he isn't anymore. Sinker’s not a fan of the idea of putting anyone down like an animal, but some enemies, from a strategic standpoint, are dangerous enough to justify it.

“No,” Plo says quietly, and Sinker can't tell if he’s responding to the thought or Sinker’s last words. When he glances over at the general, Plo's head is tipped, expression tired but considering. “Ventress must be dealt with,” he says. “But I dislike the thought of leaving her puppet at my back.”

Sinker bites the inside of his cheek, worries at it. “So don’t,” he says, rising to his feet and offering Plo a hand. “I’ll get him locked away somewhere, sir. Should at least slow him down, even if he wakes up.”

Plo takes his hand, gentle, and the click of his claw covers against Sinker’s armor feels like it should mean more than it seems to on the surface. Plo's wearing the Wolfpack claw covers again, painted with the battalion’s symbol, and Sinker’s never taken the fact that he _would_ for granted. He pulls Plo to his feet, then lets go, and says, “I think Wolffe needs you, sir.”

“I will find him, Sinker,” Plo says, gripping Sinker’s gauntlet for just another moment before he lets go. “Be careful.”

Plo's a survivor of the _Triumphant_ , too. He feels the same as Wolffe, Sinker, and Boost about the Wolfpack. Sinker’s never taken _that_ for granted, either.

“I will,” he promises, and then says, “Careful. Get hurt any more and you’ll make Payback angry.”

“A fate worse than death,” Plo says solemnly, and then is gone, disappearing into the maze of ships with a sweep of brown robes.

Which leaves Sinker alone with the Sith. The _real_ Sith. Great.

With a groan at his own idiocy, Sinker casts a glance at Savage, then around them. Savage is two meters tall if he’s a centimeter, and it’s not a lean, dainty two meters, either. Sinker’s going to need a way to move him, and then a place to move him _to_ , preferably fast.

Well. This is a smuggler’s port.

Sinker hits his comm even as he shoves at Savage, rolling him up onto his side so he can get his arms around the bastard’s chest. “Comet, any ships here been seized by the government?”

“Oh no,” Comet says, the lightness in his voice almost covering the tension. “If _you're_ asking that, Sergeant—”

Sinker grunts, levering Savage up off the ground, and hopes Maul isn't about to show up and cut his head off for this. “Just find out, _yesterday_.”

“I'm looking,” Comet promises, and there's a pause as Sinker hauls Savage back towards the rows of ships, trying not to pay attention to the trembling twitches running through him. If he wakes up, Sinker is so utterly karked there isn't even a term for it, so he might as well just keep going. “Looks like…three, in this port.”

“Closest one, and get me the codes,” Sinker orders. He’ll worry about permissions and clearing things with the planetary government when they're _not_ fighting Sith. Well. Fighting whatever Ventress considers herself now, not that she seems all that different from before. Just a little more bitter, maybe.

“You're taking a joyride _now_?” Comet jokes, but a moment later he offers, “On your three, a Corellian light freighter.”

Savage is kriffing _heavy_ , even to drag, and Sinker doesn’t have the breath to do much more than grunt as he hauls him back towards the freighter. “Entry code?”

Comet rattles it off, then says, “I'm getting them to remote activate it and release the clamps. Give it a minute.”

Sinker doesn’t bother to say that he just needs a brig, or a storage room with a sturdy door. It won't hold Savage for more than a few minutes, but if Sinker takes his lightsaber, it might give Plo enough time to find Ventress and break those karking necklaces. “Good. Perimeter?”

“Established, but I don’t know what you expect us to wait for,” Comet says. It’s almost a joke, except for the fact that asking clones to stop a Sith is a sure death sentence.

“Just keep an eye out,” Sinker says, and dumps Savage on the dirt as he punches in the entry code. The ship doesn’t respond for a long moment, but then there's a creak, a rattle. The ramp descends, and Sinker grimaces at the smell, but gets an arm under Savage’s back and heaves him up again. Thinks, for a moment, about calling for Comet to come and help, but putting _more_ clones in the line of fire if this goes poorly isn't a good idea.

When. _When_ this goes poorly.

“You're not making this easy,” he mutters at Savage, who doesn’t react except to twitch all over, eyelids fluttering. Instinct says to freeze, to make sure he’s not waking up, but instead Sinker moves faster, hauling Savage up the ramp and into the musty ship. It’s got a basic layout, It’s got a basic layout, with a single bunkroom off to the side, a hatch along one wall. Sinker wastes half a second as the ramp closes debating between stuffing Savage into a smuggler’s hold or just tossing him in the bunkroom, then decides that speed means the bunkroom’s the only viable choice. He drags Savage towards it—

A huge hand closes around his vambrace, goes tight, and Sinker wants to swear.

“Hey,” he says instead, breathless, and drags faster. “Electricity to the brain only keeps you out five minutes tops? Good to know. But give me one more minute—”

“Feral,” Savage rasps, struggling, and he’s uncoordinated, even if he’s big enough that it’s a problem regardless. Sinker mutters a curse, but he can't exactly hang onto Savage when he starts wriggling, so he stops, lets go. Wishes vaguely for binders that Force-sensitives can't just snap like tissue paper, but that’s about as much wishful thinking as hoping Dooku will surrender tomorrow morning.

“Feral is alive,” Sinker says, and sits back on his heels as Savage levers himself up, an elbow braced underneath him. “Wolffe just tranqed him so Ventress couldn’t control him. It happened before, so they worked out a way around it together. Feral agreed beforehand.”

Savage stares at him for a long moment before his face twists. “Happened before,” he repeats, and presses a hand to his face, like his head hurts. “She—”

“Tried to make him assassinate General Koon,” Sinker says evenly, and Savage raises his head, eyes wide. There's real fear on his face, a gut-wrench of terror that Sinker knows all too well. “We stopped him.”

“Mother Talzin was _using_ him,” Savage manages. “As an assassin.”

“Far as we can tell,” Sinker agrees, and…he can't believe he’s sitting here having a conversation with a _Sith_ , but apparently that’s how the day is going. “He couldn’t fight it, though. You can?”

Savage’s lips curl back from his teeth, a silent snarl. “They controlled me before, and I refuse to be their puppet again.”

Maybe it’s partially the brand, and Savage not having one, but—that’s a good sign, at least. Sinker breathes out, then manages a crooked smile and says, “Wolffe will get Feral out of danger. General Koon went after Ventress. Not sure where Maul got himself off to.”

Savage’s gaze flickers towards the ramp, and he hesitates, looking like he wants to charge back out there. After a long moment, though, he growls, thumping a fist against the floor. “If I help, she’ll try to take my mind again,” he says, low, furious, and shoves to his feet. Stalks across the ship, spins on his heel, stalks back, and all around him metal shudders, trembles.

Sinker rises carefully, wary of the possibility of violence. “Worse when you’re close?” he asks, as mild as he can make it.

Savage snarls. “She makes me _angry_ ,” he says, and stops short right in front of the wall. Sinker can see the way his muscles bunch, the curl of his body, and he’s seen enough _vode_ in the aftermath of bad battles to know Savage only just stopped himself from punching the wall. Hell, Sinker’s _been_ that _vod_ , and only Boost stopped him from breaking his whole hand.

“And anger makes control harder,” Sinker says, and doesn’t let himself take a step back.

Savage’s long horns catch the light as he dips his head, shoulders taut, muscles string tight. “Like an animal,” he says, bitter and biting.

That’s the term General Kenobi used, when Savage first appeared as Dooku's apprentice. _Like a wild animal_ , and Sinker hadn’t exactly been about to argue when he heard, when he received the reports, but—

Well. Clones get compared to meatsack droids often enough that it’s not like Sinker doesn’t feel a twinge of sympathy, regardless of what Savage has done. Zabraks don’t tend to have the greatest reputation in the wider galaxy in general, either, if not in quite the same way as Twi’leks.

“You're getting angry right now,” Sinker observes, and he doesn’t have to be a Jedi to feel that. Savage is a grenade with the pin pulled halfway out, not _hotly_ furious the way Maul got, but…brutally. Like he’s going to lose himself to it.

Savage growls, low and rumbling in the stale air. “ _My brothers_ are being hunted by a Nightsister. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“My brother is, too,” Sinker says, and refuses to let his voice waver, refuses to so much as budge when Savage turns his head to look at him. His eyes are glowing in the low light, but Sinker can't tell if it’s a Zabrak glow or a Sith glow. Still, Sinker can't do much if Savage decides to snap and kill him, so he just meets Savage’s eyes and says, “Want to guess at the survival rate of clones who face Ventress?”

He doesn’t say _or you_ , even if it’s tempting.

Savage doesn’t answer, just turns away. The words don’t seem to be helping; his breath is coming harder, his hands curled into fists. If he gets any tenser, he’s going to snap, and Sinker will be collateral damage.

Distract the Sith known for murderous rampages, Sinker thinks ruefully. _Great_. This is precisely how he wanted to die.

“Savage,” he says, taking a step forward, and Savage doesn’t turn, doesn’t _twitch_. Making it hard, not that Sinker has any idea what he’s doing anyway. But—

He steels himself, breathes in. Thinks of Feral curled in the cell, cold and wary of everything, and his own instinct to just…touch. Like he would with another clone who’d been through a bad time, a shiny away from their batch. Savage is different, because there's that edge of danger, the knowledge that he’s killed before and probably won't hesitate to wrench Sinker’s head clear off his neck, but it’s not that different.

“Savage,” he says again, and strips off his gauntlet, then reaches out. Savage’s armor covers pretty much everything, no edge of skin showing from his chin to his ankles, but Sinker presses his fingers to the back of Savage’s hand and hopes that skin contact won't set him off. “Look this way.”

“Don’t give me _orders_ ,” Savage says, low, but he’s not pulling away. There's another deep breath, and then he turns his head, shifts just a little. Sinker takes a half-step closer to keep from losing contact, and reflects that he’s about to do something unforgivably Comet-like that none of his brothers are ever allowed to know about.

“Not an order,” he says, even. “Just asking. Look this way for a minute, please.”

Savage frowns, but he does turn, looks down at Sinker with glowing eyes, and Sinker takes one look at his face, reaches up, and brushes a hand over his horns.

Instantly, Savage freezes, eyes going wide. Sinker freezes, too, more out of surprise that he didn’t just get decapitated than anything else, but—

Well. Savage isn't looking like he’s about to tear through the wall of the ship anymore, so Sinker does it again. Savage’s horns are a hell of a lot longer than Feral’s, but there are fewer of them, and they’re rougher. Like they grew too fast, got craggy. Feral’s are smooth, like polished wood, but the grooves and ridges in Savage’s catch at Sinker’s fingers.

“General Koon will get those necklaces from Ventress,” he says, keeps his voice steady, even. “He’s not going to let Feral get hurt. I'm sure of that.”

Savage is staring at him, still frozen, and Sinker very deliberately pulls his hand back and lowers it. Doesn’t step back, because that’s the same as running away at this point, but holds Savage’s gaze and says, “Sorry. Seemed to calm Feral down.”

Savage closes his eyes, ducking his head, and Sinker gets a flash of those horns stabbing forward, impaling him—

“It always has,” Savage says, rough, and sits down hard on the floor, forearms braced on his knees as he lowers his head. “He would…find flowers in the swamps. Tie them around my horns to make me smile. Before.”

Sinker thinks of Feral’s words about following his brothers. Thinks about Feral’s flinch, when Savage hugged him, and the way Savage recoiled from that flinch like he’d been stabbed right through the chest. Breathes out, and sinks down to one knee in front of Savage, watching his face.

“Seems like he’s pretty steady, for a little brother,” he says, just a touch of humor in his voice. “Headstrong, too.”

“Not headstrong enough,” Savage says darkly, and digs his fingers into his palms. Shakes his head, then says, “Keep talking, clone.”

Sinker rolls his eyes. “It’s Sinker, thanks. Is that how you thank someone for dragging your heavy _shebs_ off of the battlefield before Ventress could get in your head again?”

With a soft snort, Savage raises his head. “For your side’s benefit,” he accuses, and then pauses, frowning. “ _Shebs_.”

“Ass.” Sinker raises a brow at him. “Feral asked me that, too.”

There's the faintest curl at the corner of Savage’s mouth. “He always liked new words,” he says. Stops, breathing for a moment, and then says, “When you took him, he wasn’t…”

“I hit him in the head,” Sinker says, even, and when Savage’s eyes snap open he doesn’t let himself waver. “To knock him out. But he was fine afterwards. Nothing happened to him.” That’s not quite true, though, and after a moment Sinker grimaces. “Nothing happened to him until the Nightsisters got in his head and tried to make him kill the general. But our medic fixed him up.”

“ _Maul_ would hesitate to face Plo Koon in an even match,” Savage says darkly. “Feral wouldn’t last a full minute against him. They were trying to kill him.”

“Murder by Jedi.” Sinker studies his face, the way his jaw is clenched tight. “We figured as much. And then with Ventress showing up here, and being so interested in his last mission—”

Savage’s mouth twists. “They think he knows something,” he finishes. His nails dig into his palms, and Sinker can see blood welling up in the punctures, but he doesn’t say anything. “You know where he was taken?”

Sinker debates lying, considers embellishing. But there's a look on Savage’s face that’s less murderer and more desperate brother, and Sinker feels something twist in his chest.

“Commander Wolffe had him, last I saw,” he says instead of a vague agreement. “Ventress caught them, and tossed me out of the fight, but Wolffe’s a crafty bastard. He’ll make sure Feral gets somewhere safe.”

Savage just looks at him for a long, long moment. Then, slowly, he closes his eyes.

“I can't feel him,” he says, rough. “As soon as your commander drugged him, I _lost_ him.”

Sinker doesn’t say that he’s pretty sure Savage lost Feral a long time before that. From what he’s seen, he’s guessing Savage already knows.

“Oh, _karking hell_ ,” Fox hisses as Ventress marches Commander Wolffe past their hiding spot, an unconscious Zabrak hitched up over one of his shoulders. He pulls Padmé back further into the shadows, and Padmé goes, fitting herself back as deep into the curve of the ship’s wing as possible. Ventress isn't looking around, though; her smile is all predatory satisfaction as she marches Wolffe deeper into the port, and she doesn't seem to know they're there.

That’s not good, Padmé thinks coldly. Ventress getting what she wants _can't_ be good for them, given how all of this has gone. She glances down at her blaster, then up at Ventress’s retreating form, but—

Neither Jedi nor Sith care much at all about blasters. The odds that Ventress wouldn’t notice the bolts coming is slim to none, and if Padmé misses, she’ll be giving away their hiding spot.

“We can at least follow her,” she says, and glances at Fox. “Or I can, and you can find backup—”

Fox gives her a flatly incredulous look. “With all due respect, Senator, I'm not about to let you go after a Sith _alone_.”

“Then we’d better keep up with her,” Padmé says, and it’s a risk, but this is _important_. She can feel it. “Do you want the blaster?”

There's a moment’s pause as Fox’s dark eyes flicker from the blaster to Padmé’s face and back again. Then, with a soft snort, he says, “Keep it. Made for your hand, not mine.”

Which doesn’t mean he can't use it, but Padmé isn't about to argue. Instead, she leans down, digging through the layers of her skirts to find a particularly thick spread of embroidery on one of the underskirts. There’s a stiletto hidden in a tangle of flowers, but when she pulls the vibroblade out, it still hums to life without hesitation, and she offers it to Fox.

“This one’s also made for me,” she says, “but it’s something.”

Fox reaches out, carefully, delicately taking it from her. Flips it around, testing the weight, and then nods curtly in thanks.

“Don’t shoot Wolffe,” is all says. “Senator.”

“Don’t stab the Zabrak,” she returns, mild. “He seems important.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turns, slipping out of the shadows and following Ventress, who just disappeared around another ship. They're still close to Maul's ship, and Padmé spares a thought to wonder if Ventress is planning to steal it, but—

Two steps around the corner and Padmé stops short, so suddenly that Fox almost crashes into her. He hisses, jerks back, opens his mouth, and then freezes as his eyes settle on what caught Padmé’s attention.

Hanging just about the ground, Maul is pinned to the side of the ship, a rod driven through his hip and right into the hull. A power cord has been pulled loose, too, wrapped around his throat, and it’s crackling with electricity in uneven pulses, shaking through him.

It’s almost impressive, Padmé thinks, and breathes in. Ventress managed to find the perfect way to trap him while in the middle of a fight and on an unfamiliar planet. It’s easy to see why she’s survived so long despite being in the thick of this war.

“Sithspit,” Fox mutters, and takes a step back. His gaze is narrowed, wary. “Dead?”

“I don’t think so,” Padmé says, and holsters her blaster. Makes a decision, because Ventress is dangerous, because Maul will likely die if they leave him, and she _hates_ him but some things are more important. “Help me get him down.”

“ _Senator_ ,” Fox bites out, and his good hand closes tight around her arm. “He’s a _Sith_.”

Padmé breathes in, breathes out. “He can help us stop Ventress,” she say. “And I know he’s a Sith. He was part of the attempt to conquer my planet. But if anyone knows the identity of the Sith controlling this war, it’s him. If he owes us his life, that’s leverage.”

There's a pause, startled, and then Fox snorts softly. “You're a _politician_ ,” he says, like it’s a curse.

Padmé gives him a faintly rueful smile. “I was elected queen at fourteen, Commander,” she says. “I've never been anything else.”

Fox looks her over for a moment, silent, and then inclines his head. Doesn’t respond, but says, “I’ll lift you. That blaster conductive?”

“Not the casing,” Padmé says, and when he bends down, cupping a hand in front of him, she puts her boot in it, then jumps, and Fox uses the momentum to lift her all the way up to his shoulder. Padmé gets a knee braced, trying not to blind him with her skirts, and leans up as best she can, hooking the barrel of the blaster under the cable around Maul's neck. It’s not tied, just wrapped, and after two fumbling attempts she manages to drag it off. It spills downward, its own weight finishing the job, and Maul jerks. A cry breaks from him, equal parts pained and furious, and he lurches forward, almost into Padmé as his eyes snap open, his face twisting in a furious snarl.

Padmé doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. Meets his eyes, and she still loathes everything about him, but she can still tip her chin up and say, “Maul. A pleasure to meet you face to face again. Especially now that you owe us your life.”

Maul _growls_ , and the reverberation of it is almost a tangible thing. He raises a hand, but Padmé gets a hand on the rod that’s pinning him, and says, “Ventress took your brother.”

“She has taken _both_ of my brothers,” Maul says, still edged with that growl. “And she will pay _dearly_ for it before this day is out.”

“Then we’re in agreement,” Padmé says, and Fox shifts back as she tightens her grip on the pole, _wrenches_ —

It comes free, and Maul drops, lands in a heap in the gravel. Padmé swings down from Fox’s shoulders, landing lightly, and lets Fox draw her back a step as Maul pulls himself up onto his elbows.

“A trade,” she offers, and Maul looks at her with something burning in his eyes that Padmé is intimately familiar with. Not just her own anger. This is sharper, _darker_.

Anakin looked like that when he killed the Sand People, she thinks, and feels something cold slide down her spine.

“And what can I offer a _queen_?” Maul mocks, but he slowly, grimly drags himself to his feet and faces her squarely.

Padmé doesn’t smile. Meets his eyes, doesn’t back down, and says, “In return for your life and our help rescuing your brother, I want the name of the Sith Lord.”


	20. Chapter 20

As soon as Ventress gets them back to her ship, she’s going to kill him.

Wolffe knows it with the same kind of certainty as knowing space is cold and Plo is kind. He doesn’t even have to think about it to be certain, and there's a burning, seething helplessness that rises in tandem with that understanding, burying itself in his chest with barbed hooks and refusing to let go. Her presence at his back makes his skin crawl, and Wolffe isn't trained to run, _won't_ run if a fight is in front of him, but—

This isn't the normal kind of fight.

Against his back, there's a soft groan, a stir. Feral’s head turns—Wolffe can feel the scrape of his horns, can see the curl of his fingers against Wolffe’s breastplate. It makes him want to reach for the hypo in his belt pouch, but Ventress will see the motion. If he _doesn’t_ , though, and Feral wakes up still under her control, she’ll just have to order him to walk to get him back to her ship. Wolffe will become unnecessary baggage, and he’s absolutely sure of what will happen at that point.

If the last thing he sees in this life is kriffing _Ventress_ , Wolffe’s going to have strong words with whatever is waiting for him on the other side.

“Wolffe,” Feral breathes, almost soundless, and Wolffe lets out a rough breath, tightens his grip on Feral’s thigh, trying to give a warning without saying anything. But—Force-user. Ventress probably knew Feral was coming around well before Wolffe did.

“Pick your feet up, pet,” Ventress says, cool. “I'm tired of this planet already.”

“Running back to Dathomir?” Wolffe snaps before he can think better of it, then closes his mouth, takes a breath. Braces, just a little, for a lightsaber through his spine—

“I always miss Dathomir when I'm away,” Ventress says, and she sounds _amused_. “And beyond that, Mother Talzin needs her sons back. She’s been so sad without them.”

Wolffe scoffs, fingers tightening as he thinks of Feral’s reaction to those words, his _lack_ of surprise when he realized his own mother had controlled him like a puppet, tried to send him to a near-certain death against Plo. “What, she doesn’t have enough Nightsisters to do her dirty work for her?” he says, disgusted.

Ventress hums, low. “Why would we send a Nightsister to do a Nightbrother's job?”

“Why _did_ you?” Wolffe retorts. “Assassinating the senator—”

With a snort, Ventress steers him left. “That wasn’t a Nightsister’s job. That was a favor, but not one to bother my sisters with. Though clearly we underestimated Feral’s _incompetence_.”

“People work better when they're not _puppets_ , what an idea,” Wolffe says, and it’s too sharp, too angry. It’s going to get him killed, but right now, he can't even bring himself to care. If he has to go out like Colt—

Another scrape of horns, and with a sound of amusement, Ventress steps forward, closes the distance between them and pulls Wolffe to a stop. Wolffe can see her out of the corner of his good eye, and she’s so close that his skin prickles hard enough to hurt, a wash of adrenaline and alarm biting through his nerves.

“Awake, then?” Ventress asks, and she lifts Feral’s head by the horns. “I have to say, after your performance in the first Trial, I had such high hopes for you, Feral. You were the only one who offered me a challenge. And then you ruined it by being a _coward_.”

Feral’s fingers curl, nails scraping Wolffe’s armor. “You picked…Savage,” he manages, thick, like he’s struggling to get the words out.

Ventress lets his head drop, steps away. “Of course I did. He was weak at first, so weak that _you_ had to protect him. But he came around.”

Wolffe closes his eyes, breathes out. Pieces are falling into place, and he doesn’t like the look of _any_ of them.

 _When Ventress came into our village, she killed almost a dozen of us before she picked her champion_.

Savage was that champion. Savage was the brother of Feral’s that she took, and from what Feral said, Maul was taken as well, probably earlier. Two brothers turned over to the Sith, and Feral came within a hair’s breadth of the same fate. Is going to suffer that same fate, if she manages to take him. _Has_ suffered it, even, with how the Nightsisters have been controlling him.

Wolffe thinks of the distance to his blaster, the hypo. If he can get it into Ventress—

“Not—he’s not _yours_ ,” Feral whispers, and his hand opens, fingers spreading.

There's a moment of silence, and then Ventress snorts. “He is now. That’s how it is in this galaxy,” she says, cold. “If you can't protect yourself, you're going to be used. Savage was too weak to stop me. _You're_ too weak to stop me. Kindness will only get you killed.”

Slowly, carefully, the hypo eases out of Wolffe’s belt pouch, a little jerky, a little uncertain as it bobs in the air, and Wolffe breathes, breathes, doesn’t let himself have a reaction. Takes a half-step back so it won't scrape his armor, then shifts, like he’s resettling Feral’s weight. He’s not sure what Feral intends to do, but just the fact that he’s in control of himself is a good sign.

“You were a _Jedi_ ,” Feral says, ragged, and then Wolffe doesn’t have to worry about focusing on the hypo, because his mind goes blank with cold, twisting surprise, driven into his chest like a knife. Ventress, a kriffing _Jedi_? That’s—

Ventress’s laughter is as sharp as broken glass. “A Jedi?” she mocks. “Oh no, my sweet. The Jedi _abandoned_ me and my Master both. They left us to die, and he _did_.”

Feral chokes, and Wolffe can feel the jerk of his body as Ventress wraps an invisible hold around his throat. He wrenches forward, unable to help the reaction, spins like that will be enough to make her _stop_ —

“Well now,” Plo says, and with a humming burn of blue, his lightsaber comes to rest just a bare centimeter from Ventress’s throat. “That’s information you’ve failed to share before this. May I ask his name?”

Wolffe watches the fury slide across Ventress’s face like poison. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says sweetly, and throws herself to the side, too quick to track as her lightsaber flashes up. And normally, _normally_ Plo would slip out of danger, would dodge her easily, but this time there’s a lag. This time he’s slower, only barely manages to get his blade around to block in time, and Wolffe’s heart is in his throat, not fear but _rage_. He drops Feral, rises, and his pistols are in his hands just in time to fire both. Ventress swings around, blocking the shots, and Plo takes instant advantage, thrusting right at her spine.

Even as she leaps, flips backwards, another shot rings out, but this time it’s not Wolffe’s.

The blaster bolt just skims Ventress’s arm, but it’s enough to throw her off. She lands with a snarl, clutching at the bleeding wound as she leaps back, but Wolffe follows, firing, driving her back—

A flash of red, and a spinning double-bladed lightsaber almost takes off her head.

“Asajj,” Maul growls, stalking closer. He’s limping heavily, each step accompanied by the sound of grinding metal, but his eyes are burning and there’s an intent in his expression that makes something cold slide down Wolffe’s spine, just on instinct. From the other side, Senator Amidala slips out of the shadows, blaster raised, her face all cool focus. Behind her, right up against her back, is Fox, and he meets Wolffe’s eyes for half a second that’s all relief, then dips his chin.

The _saved your_ shebs _, asshole, you're welcome_ is silent, but heavily implied.

Wolffe huffs, low, and doesn’t stop moving, advancing on Ventress as she backs away from Maul and Plo both, trying to keep Senator Amidala and Wolffe both in her line of sight at the same time. She looks tense, wary, and Wolffe feels a surge of vicious satisfaction that’s probably unbecoming, but—

He thinks of Colt, killed with a kiss, discarded like he was _nothing_ , and if he had an ounce less training behind him, a fraction less experience, his hands might shake. But he _does_ have training. There's a whole war behind him that gives him experience, and the rage that comes with it makes his hands stone-steady as he aims for the hearts.

“All of this attention just for me?” Ventress asks, cutting, but there’s a ship at her back, Plo and Maul to her left and right, Amidala and Fox and Wolffe waiting just beyond them. “You really do know how to make a girl feel special.”

“You are a Nightsister who cannot use their magics,” Maul says, low and threatening. “But you would not take this mission without an understanding at the very least. Return Savage and Feral to me.”

It takes effort not to turn and aim a blaster at him, too, but—Wolffe can be reasonable, even when it feels like giving in to another enemy. Even if it feels like giving Feral up to a captor, instead of potentially returning him to this brother.

“ _Return_ them?” Ventress scoffs. “At _best_ they belong to Mother Talzin, not you. You're still a Nightbrother, Maul. Don’t forget.”

“This isn't a negotiation, Ventress,” Amidala says crisply. “This is a defeat.”

Ventress’s eyes narrow, gaze flicking from Plo to Maul and back to Amidala. “A bold assumption, Senator,” she says. “Given that the odds are currently so strongly in my favor.”

Wolffe scoffs before he can help it, taking a half-step forward. “You're delusional,” he snaps, and Ventress laughs.

“Am I?” she taunts, and the charms hanging around her neck burst into sickly light, almost blindingly bright in a sudden rush. Wolffe jerks back, firing automatically, but Ventress dodges them, leaping up and over and down. Maul and Plo both sweep in, but she ducks under Maul's blades, kicks him in the stomach, then flings him back. Spins, flipping right over Plo's head as she redirects Wolffe’s shots, then lands, knocks his blade wide, and drives hers forward, square at his heart.

A vibroblade cuts right in front of her face, pulling her up short, and Plo throws up a hand, an invisible force hurling her back. Senator Amidala steps right into the fight, protecting Fox now that he’s weaponless, and her shots are quick and accurate against anyone but a Force-user. Ventress is too quick, though, too brutal, and she deflects them back, whirls through the gap—

Amidala drops low, sweeps Ventress’s feet out from under her. Ventress leaps, flips, but even as she comes down at Amidala’s back, Amidala lashes out, vibroblade in one hand, and opens a line across Ventress’s stomach, pale skin against dark cloth, bright blood beading across the cut as Ventress throws herself back. Without even a second’s hesitation, Amidala spins, still firing, and Ventress has to jerk to block them, her face set in a deep scowl. She opens her mouth, but Wolffe doesn’t give her a chance. He fires at her feet, sending her leaping sideways right into Plo.

But something’s wrong. Something prickles down Wolffe’s spine, and he turns his head—

Maul. Maul is on the ground, clutching his head, a sibilant, hissing whisper rising from him that puts all of the hair on the back of Wolffe’s neck on end. His horns are growing, lengthening, and he isn't moving, isn't even trying to rise, but the gravel around him is shuddering, shifting, scattering. He moans, low and wounded, and lifts his head.

The sight of his eyes glowing poison-green as he struggles upwards makes Wolffe’s heart shudder to a stop in his chest.

“General!” he snaps, taking three shots at Ventress in quick succession to force her back, and Plo turns without hesitation, takes one look at Maul and raises a hand. Electricity crackles from his fingers, and Maul screams as it hits him, but he collapses back to the ground, no longer trying to get up.

But—

Stone crunches, and the lightsaber through Wolffe’s belt wrenches free. It flies right to an outstretched hand, thumping into Feral’s grip, and ignites in a wash of crimson.

Green eyes here, too, Wolffe thinks grimly. He takes a step back, watching Feral advance, and hears a low laugh from right behind him.

“Having problems, _pet_?” Ventress says, right in his ear, and Wolffe wrenches forward before he can even think of the motion, hurls himself straight at Feral because he’s the better choice here, because there isn't even a _contest_. Feral raises his lightsaber, but Wolffe drops low, rolls, comes up inside his guard and snaps his head forward even as the blade sweeps for his throat, and the crack of impact almost makes him wince. Feral goes reeling back, and Wolffe takes one step to the side, reaches for the hypo—

But it’s gone.

The jerk of cold dismay kicks through his chest, almost gutting, but Wolffe doesn’t pause. He flips one of his blasters around, swings hard and takes Feral in the temple as he staggers, and refuses to feel bad as Feral crumples with a cry, hitting the ground hard. Steps back, then turns, and finds Plo half a pace in front of him, Ventress nowhere to be seen.

“Commander,” Plo says, rough, and Wolffe takes a step towards him before he can stop himself.

“Sir,” he says. “You're—”

“I'm all right, Commander,” Plo says soothingly. It would work better if he didn’t have a hand pressed to his ribs, one of his older rebreathers in place of the new one what works best. “Get Feral into hyperspace, as quickly as you can. Keep going and don’t stop.”

“What?” Wolffe demands, caught off guard. He’s the commander of the Wolfpack, Plo's second. He doesn’t _leave_ , especially not when his general is hurt and in danger. “General—”

“Go,” Plo says, and reaches out, folding his hand over Wolffe’s. Wolffe grips his hand in return, and something cold touches his wrist beneath the seam of his gauntlet, wedges itself there. “Ventress wants Feral, and I find myself disinclined to let her have him. Hurry.”

Wolffe swallows, but…it’s reasonable. It’s an order, too, and he can see the sense in it, as little as he actually wants to obey. “Yes, sir,” he says, and Plo's eyes crinkle behind his goggles.

“She got here before us,” he says. “Be _careful_ , Wolffe. I have faith in you.”

Kriff. Wolffe closes his eyes, nods shortly, and says, “You too, sir.”

Plo clasps his shoulder, leans in and taps their foreheads together, and then turns. “Senator,” he says cheerfully, “I'm afraid I can't stay to congratulate you on your rescue, given that Ventress is fleeing.”

Amidala smiles crookedly, but her steps are quick and confident as she crosses the gravel. “Master Plo. That’s all right. You said hyperspace should undo the mind control?”

Plo pauses, but Wolffe hears a scuff of gravel and turns, dropping to one knee, shoving the lightsaber back through his belt, and hauling Feral up over his shoulders even as he starts to stir. When he rises, staggering a little from the weight, Amidala is kneeling down beside Maul, pulling his arm over her shoulder. There isn't even a moment’s hesitation before Fox crouches down to help her, and together they drag him up between them, all limp dead-weight but at least not fighting. Fox catches Wolffe’s eye, grimaces, but nods again, and Wolffe breathes out.

Fox knows what he’s doing. He’s an asshole, but he’s not a dumb one. If anyone can keep the senator alive around Maul, it’s him.

“It should, yes,” Plo says evenly. “You're certain, Senator?”

“Maul and I have an agreement,” Amidala says, perfectly steady as she meets his eyes. “I'm sure.”

Plo inclines his head. “The ship he came in is too great a risk to take,” he says. “But Comet tells me there are two ships that were seized by the authorities and are still in the port. Pads 52 and 86.”

“I’ll take 52,” Wolffe says curtly, because Feral is stirring against his shoulder, and staying here any longer is going to get _someone_ killed.

“Thank you, Master Plo,” Amidala says, and hauls Maul back towards the rows of ships. Wolffe turns in the other direction, takes a breath, and picks up a jog, keeping his grip on Feral’s wrists and knee. It won't do much to stop him if he wakes fully, but it will hopefully be warning enough for Wolffe to dump him on the ground and hit him again.

There's no Payback this time to fix a concussion, but—better Feral gets a concussion than Ventress drags him back to the Nightsisters to find out what he knows that he’s not supposed to.

Cursing under his breath, Wolffe jerks his comm up, opens the channel to Comet. “Comet, activation codes for the ship on pad 52.”

Comet pauses, then breathes out. “General’s telling me to wipe all records of them,” he says after a moment. “You’ll need to input a new one once you're onboard, and set up new identifications.”

That will take time, and time that they likely don’t have. Wolffe curses, louder this time, and asks, “How far can we get without IDs?”

Comet snorts. “Depends where you're going,” he says. “Don’t land at a port and you should be fine.”

Good enough. Wolffe grunts, finding the right row and hurrying down it. 52 is a small cruiser, clearly built for speed, and as he approaches the ramp comes down. There are spots that look suspiciously like bloodstains on it, but Wolffe ignores them, striding up into the belly of the ship and straight to the front. Ventress is running from Plo, and that gives them a few minutes, but—she wants Feral. The faster they leave the better.

“Comet,” he says, and dumps Feral into the copilot’s chair. “Do me a favor.”

“Sir?” Comet asks, surprised.

Wolffe blows out a breath, sinking into the other chair, and says, “Code.” He punches it in as Comet rattles it off, then says, “Check on Sinker, and make sure Boost’s all right.”

“Yes, sir,” Comet says quietly. “ _K'oyacyi._ ”

Stay alive. Wolffe can do that. He makes a sound of acknowledgement, then closes the connection, unbuckles his vambrace and the attached comm, and turns. Throws it as hard as he’s able, right out of the ship, and then grimly turns around, starting up the engines and closing the ramp. Feral’s still unconscious, collapsed in the chair like a pile of limbs, and Wolffe wishes desperately, futilely for the sedatives, locks down the thought because it’s useless, and starts their liftoff.

The ship's comm beeps at him, the code one Wolffe recognizes as the aviation authorities, but he just reaches over and switches it off, not about to leave a record. Ventress knew they were headed for this planet well before they landed, and that makes Wolffe disinclined to trust _anything_ right about now. He just guns the engines, already inputting hyperspace coordinates as they break atmosphere, and as the sky goes dark and vast around them, he thinks he catches the shadow of another ship rising in tandem. Fox and Amidala with Maul, likely, Wolffe thinks, and thinks of Sinker, likely strangled if he’s not already dead. His hands clench tight on the yoke, and he closes his eyes for a long moment.

Plo is taking care of Ventress. He wouldn’t have left Sinker alone with Savage unless Savage was already dealt with. Wolffe _knows_ that, without reservation or pause.

Grimly, he opens his eyes, reaches out. Activates the hyperdrive, and raises his head to watch the world flash bright and then turn into streaking stars, carrying them away.

This, Sinker is sure, is _absolutely_ what is going to end up getting him killed.

“Oh, come on,” he says, blaster leveled at the looming Sith. “It was a _joke_. Don’t just leave.”

Eyes glowing green, face twisted up like he’s in pain, Savage snarls at him, advancing a step. Sinker takes that same step back without hesitation, because he’s not an idiot; if Savage decides to go through him, there's going to be a clone-shaped smear on the floor and not much else.

“And here I thought we were getting along,” he says, rueful, but Savage doesn’t seem to appreciate his wit. He growls, low, a sound that couldn’t possibly come from a Human throat, but—

But he hasn’t gone through Sinker yet, and Sinker isn't stupid enough to think it’s because of the blaster Sinker currently has trained on his chest.

“Savage,” Sinker says deliberately, and there's no reaction, but Savage still isn't charging. “Just wait. General Koon is trying to rescue Feral right now. Ventress won't get him.”

Something flickers across Savage’s expression, and he ducks his head. Shakes it, hard, just once, and doesn’t move, and Sinker breathes in.

“Savage,” he says again, taking a step forward, and of _course_ that’s the moment his comm chooses to beep. Sinker freezes, and Savage twitches, head rising—

“Kriff,” Sinker mutters, and reaches up. Doesn’t _grab_ Savage’s horns, because he’s not that dumb—probably—but strokes them, a deliberate drag of fingers that makes Savage freeze. For a fraught second Sinker can't tell if it’s a good sort of freeze or a bad one, and it’s only an unhealthy dose of stubbornness that makes him keep stroking. He’s not tearing Sinker into little bitty pieces, though, and Sinker blesses whatever cosmic force looks after fools, then raises his comm.

“ _What_?” he hisses.

“Sorry, sir,” Comet says quickly. “General said to get Savage into hyperspace as quickly as you can. Don’t tell anyone where you're headed, and I'm supposed to erase the ship from every system once you're gone.”

“Kriffing hell,” Sinker mutters, and under his hand Savage stirs. Green-gold eyes look up, and Sinker very, very deliberately thinks soothing and calming thoughts about all the nice things he’s going to do when this incredibly stressful day is finally over with. “Feral and Maul?”

Savage’s eyes lock on him, suddenly twice as focused.

“Doing the same,” Comet says. “The general sent Wolffe with Feral, and Senator Amidala and Commander Fox took Maul. Ventress got them both, and General Koon wants you all out of the way so he doesn’t have to fight the Nightbrothers, too.”

Well. That’s one way to do things, and sounds like something Plo would default to. Especially if he’s worried about spies, which is reasonable, given what Ventress was saying.

“I’ll dump my comm once we’re in atmosphere,” Sinker says evenly, holding Savage’s gaze. “Feral’s safe and out of Ventress’s reach. You heard that?”

Savage grimaces, but he leans into Sinker’s hand, and Sinker takes a step forward, running his fingers lightly around the base of Savage’s horns. “Comet, just—make sure Boost doesn’t take this too hard, okay? We’ll be back.”

“The commander said the same thing,” Comet says, and it sounds like he’s grinning. “Well, he included you, but—”

Sinker rolls his eyes and closes the channel, then curls a hand around Savage’s elbow and gently pushes him back. “Come on,” he says as gently as he can manage. “We need to get you out of Ventress’s range and hope that’s enough to snap you back to normal. Again. Let’s go sit up front, huh?”

No orders. Nothing panicked, nothing that lets Sinker’s worry through. And—maybe it’s wrong to treat the murderous Sith who’s slaughtered Jedi like a shiny in the midst of their first panic attack, but Savage responds to it. Not _immediately_ , but after a second of resistance he lets Sinker steer him up towards the cockpit, and Sinker makes sure that he doesn’t bash his horns on the ceiling as he ducks through the doorway. Doesn’t let go, because that seems like the best option here right now, and it’s awkward to run through the startup when he’s leaning over and trying to keep in contact with Savage, but—it’s a hell of a lot better than trying to wrangle a Savage who’s in the middle of storming out to follow the Nightsisters’ commands.

“Maul,” Savage says, low, almost unintelligible. He leans into Sinker’s hand again, eyes closed, muscles bunching like he’s struggling against something vast and invisible. “He doesn’t—he hasn’t. Dealt with them.”

Sinker doesn’t let his fingers pause as he gets them in the air. “Dealt with who?” he asks. “Amidala and Fox? Because for a senator, Amidala’s not bad, and Fox is a bastard but he’s a sharp one.”

Savage shudders all over, one silent tremor that speaks of far, far more than words ever could. “No,” he says roughly. “Nightsisters.”

Sinker grimaces. Maul is unpredictable enough all on his own. Add in the Nightsisters digging around in his brain and Fox and Amidala are going to have a hell of a time. “They’ll get him far enough away,” he says. “Those amulets Ventress had—they must make everything stronger, right?”

“The focus,” Savage agrees, and his hands clench tight on the arms of the chair. Sinker checks their elevation, then immediately starts on the hyperspace coordinates. Almost asks Savage where he wants to go, but—he’s got Nightsisters in his brain right now, and Sinker would rather they didn’t know the destination. “But it shouldn’t—shouldn’t work like that.”

Pausing, Sinker glances over, a little surprised. “It shouldn’t?” he asks, because he would have thought that Nightbrothers wouldn’t know much of anything about the Nightsisters’ magic.

Savage shakes his head, gritting his teeth. Growls, a low rumble of sound, and the armrests creak loudly in his grip. “Shouldn’t—it’s not. Strong enough. To get us this far away. Must be something else.”

Great. Something adding to the Nightsisters’ power, giving them an edge. Sinker doesn’t like that at _all_. With a grimace, he wipes the coordinates he’d set, enters in something a hell of a lot harder to get to, and engages the drive. As the sky blurs black, he strips off his vambrace, then offers it out.

“Here,” he says. “If you need to crush something, try this. Having a comm on us probably isn't the best idea.”

Savage stares at him, frozen, for a long, long moment, like Sinker just did something unexpected. His gaze flickers down to the vambrace, then up again, and he slowly reaches out and takes it.

Sinker looks away half an instant before plastoid cracks. There are some things he just doesn’t need to watch.


	21. Chapter 21

There's a data chip tucked under the edge of Wolffe’s remaining gauntlet, right between padding and skin.

In the strange light of hyperspace, Wolffe holds the chip up, turning it between his fingers. Plo went out of his way to pass it on, even in the middle of a fight, but Wolffe has no idea what it’s meant for. The chip itself is unmarked, and there’s no indication of where it came from. Wolffe isn't entirely sure he should try to access it, with so many worries about spies so close, but—

Plo wouldn’t put them in danger. Wolffe can have faith in that, at the very least.

Grimacing, Wolffe rubs a hand over his face, then casts a look at Feral, who’s still and unconscious in the other seat. There's a bruise spreading across his temple, and one of his horns has punctured the seat, sticking his head in an uncomfortable position. There's no way to tell from the outside if he’s still being controlled, if they're far enough away to escape the Nightsisters yet, and there's a low, unrelenting itch of tension under Wolffe’s skin that says he should tie Feral up or lock him away somewhere.

Instead, though, Wolffe takes a rough breath, pulls his helmet off, and sets it aside. Rises, then leans over Feral and grips his horns, freeing him from the fabric with a tug. The stump of the broken one scrapes the heel of his hand, and Wolffe grimaces a little, crouching down and watching Feral’s face as he presses his thumb to the slightly rough stub. There's a scar on the scalp, too, just a few centimeters away, like whatever blow broke the horn skimmed flesh as well. Wolffe wonders who patched it up, or of anyone did.

Maybe the Nightsisters healed it just to keep their secret for a little longer, and—that’s a horrifying thought. How much more damage have they fixed since they first got control of Feral? How many times has Feral almost been killed for them and never even known it?

That itching thought makes Wolffe’s grip softer than it might be otherwise when he reaches out, catches Feral’s shoulder. Doesn’t shake, doesn’t try to rouse him, but tugs him around, getting him situated more comfortably, sitting mostly upright and leaning back against the chair. Then, just for a moment, Wolffe pauses, attention caught by the raw-red mark on Feral’s throat. It looks like a new wound, like a fresh brand, and Wolffe grits his teeth against the angry sound that wants to escape his chest.

Feral’s reaction when Payback tried to touch it is close, all too vivid in his mind right now, so Wolffe doesn’t put a hand there, doesn’t smooth his thumb over it the way he wants to. Instead, he curls a hand over Feral’s head, tangling his fingers in short, slick horns and running his fingertips over the brown marks that curl across his skin. There's no way to tell the difference between tattoos and markings, and Wolffe wants to know, but—

It’s not important right now, he thinks, breathing out, and makes to rise, only to catch a whisper of motion. Freezes, hand twitching towards his blaster as he waits for some sign that the Nightsisters still have control of Feral’s mind.

Except, when Feral’s eyes slide open, the only color Wolffe can see is gold.

If someone had told Wolffe a month ago—a _week_ ago—that the sight of Sith-yellow eyes would be a comfort, he would have shot them. Right now, though, that’s all he feels, one sharp wash of relief that curls in his veins like heat. He exhales, and it feels like a hundred kilograms goes with the escaping breath, all the tension escaping him in a rush.

“Feral,” he says, pressing his thumb to Feral’s broken horn again.

Feral blinks at him for a moment, then carefully sits up. He grimaces, touching the side of his head gingerly, and says, “The sedative—it didn’t work?”

Wolffe snorts. “The second time? Couldn’t even try. The hypo must have dropped when Ventress started choking you, and I didn’t have time to find it.” He flicks a glance at the heavy bruising, weighing what to say, but—an apology doesn’t fit. What he did is something Feral would have agreed to if he’d been in control of himself, and Wolffe’s not going to say sorry for doing what he had to.

“Oh,” Feral says after a moment, and ducks his head, rubbing a hand over his face. It looks like he’s in pain, and given Payback’s warnings about the aftereffects of the sedative feeling like a bad hangover after just one dose, Wolffe doesn’t want to imagine how his head feels after two in quick succession. “I­’m—I wanted to use it on Ventress,” he confesses. “But now—”

Now they don’t have it, and if the Nightsisters try again, Wolffe’s going to have to start worrying about giving Feral brain damage with all these hits to the head.

“We’re going to have to land somewhere light on the rules until I can get the ship set up with new codes,” Wolffe says after a moment, and shifts back, settling on the arm of the pilot’s chair. “There’s probably something on the market that will work.”

Feral nods, raising his head. “I might know someone, depending on where we land,” he says quietly. “My—Maul has been doing a lot of work in the Outer Rim.”

Maul. His brother. That realization still feels a little like a kick in the teeth, though it can't quite beat watching Feral walk right up and practically hug Maul. It had been so tempting, in that one moment, to aim and fire, and—Wolffe still isn't entirely sure who he would have been firing _at_.

Seeing Feral flinch away from Savage, remembering Feral’s words in the darkness about this brother breaking his neck—that jarred Wolffe back to some level of perspective, and Feral facing both Maul and Savage when he was clearly outmatched definitely didn’t hurt.

“We’ll figure something out,” Wolffe says gruffly, and reaches up, turning Feral’s face to the side so he can see the bruise Savage’s punch left. It’s wide, already darkening across Feral’s markings and dusty orange skin, and Wolffe sets his jaw and doesn’t let himself have a reaction. Feral took that punch in the name of distracting Maul so he would free Wolffe. It’s…not something that sits easily, though Wolffe has no idea how to actually feel about it.

“I'm all right,” Feral says quietly, and his fingers curl around Wolffe’s wrist, squeezing lightly. “He didn’t break anything.”

“Good,” Wolffe says, because it is. Finding a medic or a doctor right now would be a pain and a half, and Wolffe would rather not expose too many civilians to them, just in case.

Feral gives him a faintly crooked smile, then shifts, glancing back into the main part of the ship. He pauses, clearly startled, and then asks, “Where are we?”

Right. Because Feral was probably expecting a shuttle back to the cruiser at the very least, and this definitely isn't. Wolffe grimaces, rubbing at his good eye, and says, “On a ship that was impounded by the Sekind government, headed south. Whatever Ventress was doing to you, the general and I figured that getting into hyperspace would help you fight it.”

Feral’s breath is rueful. “I think it did,” he says, and sits up, crossing his legs beneath himself. Pauses, watching Wolffe’s face, and asks, “Am I the one who broke your vambrace?”

Wolffe snorts. “No,” he says, and the Feral’s relief is mildly amusing. “Ditched my comm when we took off.”

“Because you don’t want anyone to track us,” Feral says quietly, and he’s watching Wolffe’s face. “Because Ventress knew the 104th would be on Sekind, and it could have been someone with access to your comm signal.”

“Someone told her,” Wolffe says, flat, and the idea of there being a traitor that high up in the GAR makes his skin prickle. It’s not surprising, but at the same time, having it confirmed makes Wolffe want to drag every last officer into interrogation and not let them out until he’s found the culprit. “And if she wants you that badly, she’ll keep looking for us. Plo doesn’t want her to get you, so we ran.”

Feral nods, and there's unhappiness in the slant of his expression, something tired and a little angry as he curls forward, pressing his hands over his face. “Savage and Maul?” he asks, muffled. “Were they—did Plo…”

 _Kill them_ , Wolffe assumes is how that sentence ends. He swallows the first thing he wants to say, because it’s cruel and he’s still angry, and breathes in. Makes himself look at Feral, curled in the chair, bloody and bruised and obviously hurting, and breathes out again.

“I don’t know about Savage,” he says. “Ventress got Maul, though he was…different. She said something about him having the Nightsisters in his head for a long time.”

Feral makes a low sound, raising his head. “He was…not well,” he says, careful, like he’s picking his words. “Savage found him on Lotho Minor, right after he escaped Dooku. And Maul wasn’t—stable. The Nightsisters brought him back to himself. That must be when they planted the seeds of their magic in him.”

“This is the _stable_ Maul,” Wolffe says flatly, not quite disbelieving, but—it’s a hell of a thought. And then the rest of Feral’s words register, and he pauses. “ _Escaped_ Dooku?”

Hesitating, Feral glances at him, then out towards the stars. He’s silent for a moment before he finally gives Wolffe a bare, crooked smile. “When Savage broke my neck, the Nightsisters were testing their control over him. He’d protected me in Ventress’s trials, and Ventress wanted to use him for her revenge against Dooku for abandoning her, so her hold needed to be complete. And it was. So she and Mother Talzin gave Savage to Dooku as a new apprentice, and after a few months, Ventress tried to use him to kill Dooku. But he broke her control and got away.”

 _Gave_ , Wolffe thinks, and he hates Savage, hates every Sith, but—Feral uses that word so casually. Like it doesn’t mean anything that Savage was traded to Dooku, used as a prop in Ventress’s quest for revenge. Like it’s to be _expected_ that Savage being forced to kill his brother was just a test of the Nightsisters’ magic. His stomach turns, and he thinks of the rumors about Devaron, the slaughter there. He knew Trauma, shared classes with him on Kamino, and his death at Savage’s hands was just another loss to the Sith, to Dooku, but—

Knowing that Savage was being controlled the whole time doesn’t make the pain of that death better. It doesn’t ease the ache of too many lost already, but. There's an edge of disbelieving anger that comes along with the knowledge, that Trauma was collateral in Ventress’s revenge for being dropped as Dooku's apprentice. That his death, and the death of General Halsey and Commander Knox, was just a _side effect_ in Ventress getting back at her former Master for a slight.

Knowing about Savage doesn’t change any of the things he’s done since he escaped Dooku, and Wolffe isn't sure what it _does_ change, but—something, probably.

Breathing out, he files it away to consider later, and then says, “Fox and Senator Amidala grabbed Maul and got him off the planet. Some kind of deal between them, she said. He going to go crazy on them?”

“I don’t think so,” Feral says quietly. “He wasn’t—he wasn’t _that_ dangerous, when he was—before the Nightsisters. Hurt, I think. Savage didn’t tell me, exactly, but—it sounded like his Master abandoned him, and hurt him, and he was grieving and angry at Kenobi for taking his legs.”

Applying any of those things to Darth Maul makes Wolffe’s head hurt a little, and he pulls a face, looking away. “They’ll be fine,” he says, and has to choose to believe that.

Feral smiles a little, and this time it’s a real smile. “Senator Amidala seems like she can take care of herself,” he says.

Wolffe snorts. “She got in a hit on Ventress,” he says, and if nothing else, that’s reason enough to respect her. “Drew blood.”

“Good,” Feral says, and then glances at the viewscreen again. “Where are we going?”

“South,” Wolffe says, more than happy to shift the subject. “Towards the Gaulus sector. Figured that was far enough to get us some distance, and it’s close enough to Hutt space that no one will look too closely.” He pauses, curling his fingers around the data chip he’s still holding, and then glances down at it. “The general passed me something. It might be a place he wants us to end up.”

Feral looks relieved to hear that, and he shifts forward, offering a hand to Wolffe. Not about to protest, Wolffe tosses the chip to him, and he finds the reader’s slot and slides the chip in, activating the holoscreen with a touch. There's a flicker of blue, and then an image rises.

Wolffe pauses, a little startled at the sight of Agen Kolar just pulling his hood back. He’s not sure what he expected the chip to hold, but—not this.

“Oh,” Feral says, and there’s something quietly awed in his voice as he leans forward. “He’s an Iridonian Zabrak.”

“High General Agen Kolar,” Wolffe says. “He’s on the Council.”

It’s clearly a recording of a previous comm, because Kolar has his head tipped like he’s listening to something, and over the end of Wolffe’s words he says, “It’s been a long time since I had anything to do with the witches of Dathomir, my friend.”

“But you have had dealings with them in the past,” Plo's voice says, that particular tone he uses when he’s sure of something and is just waiting for someone to confirm it so he can spring the trap.

Kolar snorts, apparently familiar with the tone as well. “Master T’ra has told you the stories of my misspent youth,” he says. “A visit to Dathomir was included in that, to study the ways the witches used the Force.”

Plo chuckles quietly. “You’ve always been a bold one, Agen. Tell me, did you find anything?”

There's a pause as Kolar considers Plo, and then a breath. “Enough to make me leave Dathomir,” he says bluntly. “And turn my attention to questioning those who had left and no longer followed their practices instead.”

Something cold trickles down Wolffe’s spine. He knows Kolar by reputation, knows what Fil and Plo have both said about him. He’s not exactly a cautious man, and the fact that he left Dathomir with what sounds like relative speed says a lot.

“I'm hoping you would be willing to share your wisdom regarding their magics, Agen,” Plo says after a moment. “Or any contacts that you might have. I find myself in need of further information.”

Kolar’s eyes narrow, a dangerous expression. “If you are having trouble with the witches—”

“Not me,” Plo says softly. “A Nightbrother.”

Kolar’s expression twists. “You don’t wish to speak to a witch,” he says. “You want a Nightsister. Very few ever leave their order.”

“But you know of one.”

Kolar blows out an aggravated breath. “I know of one,” he confirms. “Mother Talzin is very interested in finding her, however, and I will not share her location over a comm channel.”

There's a quiet chuckle. “I would not ask you to put her at risk, my friend,” Plo says. “Where may I find you, that I can ask in person?”

Kolar frowns, and a whirl of wind sweeps his cloak out, flutters his long hair around him. “You believe it is that pressing?” he asks. “This Nightbrother—”

Plo's voice is rueful when he says, “I'm afraid I would rather not trust this information to a comm channel either, not without the GAR’s full encryption. And such a thing is out of reach on your end, at the moment.”

Kolar inclines his head, putting up a hand to keep his hair out of his face. “I am currently on Stoga,” he says, “in the Bitrose sector. Commander Fil and I have no plans to leave in the near future, barring anything…unexpected.”

“Then I will come join you as soon as I can,” Plo says, and pauses. His voice is full of good humor when he adds, “I believe it would do a Nightbrother well to meet you, Agen.”

Kolar’s snort is clear. “A Nightbrother away from Dathomir is a fortunate thing,” he says. “Assuming he relinquishes the Dark Side.”

Feral winces, ducking his head, and Wolffe glances over at him but doesn’t say anything. He listens to Plo's cheerful farewell, Kolar’s more measured response, and watches as the holo flickers back to Kolar pulling his hood off.

“The Bitrose sector is close,” Wolffe says after a moment. “And the Stoga system is on the very edge of it. I can change the coordinates without us having to leave the hyperlane.”

Wolffe doesn’t have to be a Jedi to feel Feral’s nervousness, the reluctance in the way he closes his eyes and buries his face in his arms. After a long second of silence, though, he raises his head, and his gaze fixes on Kolar with an intensity that’s close to desperation.

“I know Zabraks get to be Jedi sometimes,” he says, quiet. “But—I've never seen any. I've never met anyone from Iridonia. They—sometimes the Nightbrothers would talk about it, but—no one ever left. No one ever _escaped_.”

 _Get to be Jedi_. Maybe phrasing it like that is an unconscious thing, automatic and without thought, but it still makes Wolffe lean back a little, considering Feral, considering the way Plo was nudging him towards Jedi techniques and away from Sith practices. He’d been incredibly skeptical, but—

“There are a lot of Zabrak Jedi,” Wolffe says. “Two on the High Council alone. Agen Kolar and Eeth Koth.”

Feral’s expression twists, and he still isn't looking away from the image of Kolar, caught in the wind and flickering blue. “There are—a lot of us, in the village,” he says, ragged, “who could be Sith warriors. The Trials the Nightsisters use to pick their champions, or their mates—they test instincts, and awareness. They test for the Force, even if the Sisters don’t say that. But I just—we could be _Jedi_ , too.”

Wolffe considers telling him that that’s exactly what Plo was trying to make happen. There's still a trace of something wary in his chest, though, an echo of that bantha-kick feeling from seeing Feral walk right up to Maul and embrace him. He could say something, but he keeps his mouth shut instead, focuses on the controls as he turns to face them and enters the new grid coordinates. The Stoga system is right where Wild Space meets Hutt space, but at least it’s relatively easy to get to. The Hutts don’t want to kill their trade routes, after all.

“Well, you’ll get to see just how much of a Jedi a Zabrak can be,” Wolffe says gruffly. “Plo wouldn’t have given me that message if he didn’t want us to find General Kolar.”

Feral rubs his face against his arm, then lifts his head. “I want to meet him,” he says, and it only wavers faintly. Wolffe might not have caught it if he wasn’t listening. “I _need_ to meet him, Wolffe.”

Wolffe breathes in, breathes out. “You will,” he promises, and doesn’t even know if it’s true, but—

He’s going to try to _make_ it true, and that probably amounts to the same thing, in the end.

“Kamino might be our best bet,” Fox says noncommittally, and very pointedly doesn’t turn around and look back to where Padmé is trying to get Maul settled. He’s heavy, and cumbersome with his legs still sparking and glitching whenever she tries to move them the wrong way, but Padmé started this. She’s the one who told Fox to pilot the ship and get them off Sekind, and she’s not about to ask for help.

“Ventress made it onto Kamino at least once before,” Padmé manages, and just barely manages to keep one of Maul's long horns from catching her in the eye. It scrapes across her cheek instead, and she curses, shoving him hard. With a hiss that’s far more animalistic than it should be, Maul finally rolls onto the wide, padded bench, horns tearing into the cloth. With a grimace, Padmé tears yet another layer from her dress, sliding it under Maul's head. If it can block a vibroblade, it can probably handle his horns, at least for a little while.

“Jedi,” Maul hisses, and it’s strange, wavering. His eyes are still poison-green, and his fingers rake over Padmé’s arm, snatch at her like he’s going to haul himself to his feet. “It was the _Jedi_ , no mercy, mercy is how the weak tell themselves they're strong—”

Firmly, Padmé catches his hand, wrapping her own around it. There's still a burning thread of anger in her chest, for the humiliation, for the abuse, for trying to deliver Naboo into the Trade Federation’s hands, but—if they help Maul, she gets the name of the Sith Lord behind the war. For that, she’s willing to do almost anything.

“There are no Jedi here,” she says, and makes it stern, but not harsh. “There's no one here but us, Maul.”

Maul shudders, then bares his teeth, and his grip goes bruising-tight. “No,” he says. “No, no, no, no, no, no—”

Fox is watching them, head turned just enough to be aware of Maul's every motion. “Ventress is like a rat,” he says, over Maul's litany of nos. “She gets everywhere you don’t want her.”

“Most places, I would assume,” Padmé says ruefully, and pulls the pins the rest of the way out of her hair. Or _tries_ , at least—one of the pins is stuck, and she can't get it loose with just one hand. “We’re heading in the direction of Kamino? The Rishi Maze edges the Abrion sector, right?”

Fox makes a sound of acknowledgement and rises. He takes two steps towards them, then pauses, eyes flickering from Maul, still muttering and hissing and clutching Padmé’s hand, to Padmé with her hair awkwardly pulled halfway down, and there's the faintest twitch at the edge of his lips.

“I'm sure it’s very funny,” Padmé says with a roll of her eyes, though she can't quite keep the humor out of her own voice. “He won't let go.”

“You're the one who chose to make a bargain with the Sith, Senator,” Fox says without mercy, but he crosses to her side and then hesitates. Another slow sweep of his gaze, wary and assessing, and he says, “Can I…?”

Padmé lets out a relieved breath and pulls her fingers free of the knot in her hair. “If you don’t want to hold the Sith's hand, you could try to get the pins out of my hair,” she says, and gives Fox a crooked smile. “I'm sorry, I thought I could do it one-handed.”

“I'm not surprised you couldn’t,” Fox says, and kneels down behind her. There's a moment of perfect stillness, and then he lets out a rough breath and asks, “How many pins?”

Padmé tries to feel them out. “Three, I think. Be careful, the ends are sharpened.”

“Another hidden weapon,” Fox says, mildly amused, and there's a faint tug. A moment later, knuckles brush her skull, and there's a slip. One side of the twist comes loose, sliding down over her shoulders to tumble across the edge of the bench, right over Maul's arm. He lurches like he’s going to throw himself away from it, and Padmé lunges to catch his other hand, trying to keep him pinned to the cushion as things all around them rattle.

“Maul,” she says, firm. “Maul, look at me. We got away from Ventress and the pendants. Look at me.”

“He took them from me,” Maul hisses, but he doesn’t fight as Padmé presses him down, then eases her grip, sitting back a little. “He took _everything_.”

“Not your brothers,” Padmé says, only able to guess what he means, but—even if it’s not what Maul intended, it’s a change of subject.

And, indeed, there's a pause. Those poison-green eyes slide to her, and Maul stares, unblinking. “Brother,” he repeats.

“Two brothers,” Padmé says. “Feral and Savage. They got away from Ventress, too.”

Maul stares for another moment, and then slowly, with an air of exhaustion, his eyes slide closed. “We are of the same blood,” he mutters, and turns his head away, falling silent.

Padmé breathes out, and at her back Fox deliberately pulls the second pin free, then raises it to the light. “I'm starting to feel like if I turned you over and shook you, I’d end up with an arsenal, Senator,” he says, like Maul's interruption never happened.

Padmé can't help but smile, glad for this one last thread of something approaching normalcy. The man who helped try to capture her planet is clinging to her hand, out of his mind with Nightsister magics, but at least Fox is treating it as if it’s an everyday occurrence.

“Naboo might be a peaceful planet,” she says, “but that just means we don’t often have wars, Commander. There are still more than enough threats.”

Fox makes a sound of mild disbelief, but not enough that Padmé can call him on it. The last pin pulls free with a stinging tug, and Padmé winces, but gratefully shakes her hair loose. She’ll have to put it back up soon, to keep it out of the way, but the lack of weight dragging on her skull is a relief.

“We’ll be in the Abrion sector in a few hours,” Fox says, and there's an odd note in his voice, but when Padmé glances back, he’s in the middle of rising, careful of his splinted arm. “If we’re not going to Kamino, we’re going to need to find somewhere to hole up. Preferably somewhere that can deal with him.” A sharp jerk of his chin indicates Maul.

Padmé breathes out, closing her eyes as she tries to make a plan. The Abrion sector is heavily Separatist space, and though the Republic has made inroads, there's still too much of it that’s held by sympathizers. The Rishi sector is all but uninhabited, but—

“Scarif,” she says. “It’s a mining world, so they’ll have medical care, and it’s far enough from any other inhabited systems that we should have time to regroup and decide on our next move.”

Fox is quiet for a moment, watching her, and then he says, “If he really does know the Sith Lord’s name, we can't go back to Coruscant. Even trying to contact someone there is dangerous.”

Padmé is all too aware of that. Her first instinct was to comm Bail, or maybe Breha, and see if they could go to Alderaan, but Bail already risks himself often enough to give Breha grey hairs, and Padmé won't add to that. Her next thought had been Tatooine, but—

Tatooine is too closely tied to Anakin, to all the many things Padmé pushed down and glossed over because she was in love, and she doesn’t know that she can face her failures there. Naboo would take them, but Naboo is still recovering from the last invasion, and Padmé won't invite another one. Beyond that, Padmé’s trust is limited, and given the stakes, she’s reluctant to trust _anyone_ right now.

She could go to Anakin, she thinks, and closes her eyes, sinking her teeth into her lip. That would be the easy choice, the sensible one. And yet—

Padmé thinks of the darkness in Maul's gaze, the same darkness that was in Anakin's eyes when he told her about killing the Tusken Raiders. When he told her about killing _children_.

Tatooine isn't a Republic planet. None of its laws apply there. If they did, Padmé could have simply turned over the information of what Anakin had done, but…it’s not that simple.

She wishes that it was, that everything since she told Anakin to consider them divorced could be distilled down into a correct set of actions, but it’s not like that, and she did this to herself. She’s an accomplice, by virtue of her knowledge.

Padmé has never hated anything more.

“If we go to a Jedi, they’ll want to take Maul,” she says, “and I gave him my word. I'm afraid we can't contact anyone.”

Fox huffs, but Padmé can hear him retreat, heading towards the controls. “Scarif,” he repeats. “Got a plan B, Senator?”

“Yes,” Padmé says, and adds with perfect truthfulness, “But you won't like it.”

“I haven’t liked anything about this day so far,” Fox says dryly. “Try me.”

“Hypori,” Padmé says, and Fox closes his eyes, breathes through his nose for a long, long second.

“You're right,” he finally says. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Padmé allows, “but there's enough scrap in the planet’s orbit to hide our ship a dozen times over, and Ventress won't look there.”

“Because only an _idiot_ would go to Hypori,” Fox mutters, but he sinks down into the pilot’s seat and says, “Scarif. Then you can contemplate suicide. Senator.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Padmé says ruefully, and sits down fully, turning to put her back to the bench as best she can. Maul's red-and-black hand is still wrapped tight around hers as he mutters, and Padmé stares at it for a long moment, contemplating shaking him off, but—

His grip is something close to desperate, and Padmé can't make herself do it, even if he’s the enemy.


	22. Chapter 22

They're trying to take control of him again.

Savage can feel it, the creeping whispers loud in his ears. There's green fog in his mind, hot and corrosive, and he feels like every breath is ten times the effort that it should be. It’s a _fight_ , a furious struggle between the voices in his head and the urge snarling up his spine and the knowledge of who exactly is pushing him, _laughing_ at him.

He can focus. He can think. He’s not mindless the way he was before, and it’s half spite that keeps him that way, the memory of Ventress snarling at him as Dooku's lightning crackled through his body. She’d been so angry that he wouldn’t stand up and help her, and then—

Enough lightning and Savage didn’t have to obey any more.

The whispers rise, twisting in his mind, deafening and dark. His vision swims, and Savage digs his fingers into plastoid and metal even as it creaks dangerously. Hate, he thinks, because that was one of Dooku's lessons that he learned all too well. Hate is power. If he just focuses, _feeds_ on the hatred of the Nightsisters and Mother Talzin that’s already lodged deep in his chest, he can—

“Hey,” a voice says, almost startlingly real and present in comparison to the hissing whispers. There's a hesitation, and then a touch of skin on the back of Savage’s hand, unfamiliar enough to startle. Savage twitches, and instantly the hand lifts, a flicker of sharp wariness spiking. It _stings_ , even though it shouldn’t, makes Savage _angry_ , because he’s a _monster_ and they _made him that way_ —

“Hey,” that voice says again, quiet, even. “I won't touch you if you don’t want me to. But it looks like you need help. What can I do?”

A sound that could be a laugh in another life grates out of Savage’s throat. “Kill all the Nightsisters, down to the last witch,” he says, and there's a pause, then a snort.

“I'm good, but I'm not that good. Anything more immediate? Talking helped before, right?”

Talking does help, though Savage hadn’t expected it to, had never tried it before in any structured way. But it’s…better. Like with Padmé, offering distraction, making Savage’s mind work on pathways other than simple rage.

No one’s wanted anything but rage from him in so long that it’s entirely unfamiliar.

“Yes,” he says, and finally manages to open his eyes. It’s almost surprising that the air isn't thick and full of green smoke, black sparks, but it's clear. All Savage can see is the streaks of stars as they move through hyperspace, and he breathes out, loosening his grip on the arms of his chair. He dented it, but—he didn’t break it, and that has to mean something.

From the pilot’s seat, the clone is watching him, unwavering but not outright afraid. He’s wary, but calm, and Savage wants to stitch himself to the slow, steady current of his mind, use it as a touchstone, but he crushes the impulse. He’d tried that with Maul, at the very beginning, when the rage was too much, and it had ended in disaster.

“You said your name earlier,” Savage says, rough in his throat, and doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t remember. They’d been talking about Feral. He knows that.

“Sinker,” the clone says, and glances back towards the controls. The light from the stars catches on his hair, and it’s oddly pale. Silver, almost. Savage hasn’t seen many outside a handful of Nightsisters with hair that color. “I'm Sinker.”

Savage inclines his head, just faintly, and commits that to memory. He won't ask again. “You know Feral.”

Sinker pauses, and his eyes are still focused out the viewscreen, but Savage catches the curl of his mouth, not solely humor. He feels…wry. A little tired, a bit sad.

“I was one of the troops trying to stop Feral at the comm tower,” he says after a moment. “Twice he had the chance to kill me and he didn’t. Would have let him get away untouched, probably, but—he didn’t even toss me around.”

Savage’s breath rattles in his chest, and he shuts his eyes. Leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands, only to dig his fingers into his skin. That…sounds exactly like Feral. It sounds like Feral, and everything Maul has been trying to teach him not to do, and Savage should be _angry_ at him for being so weak but at the same time all he can feel is relief.

Feral is strong, but he’s _soft_. He needs to be harder to survive as a Sith warrior, but if nothing in the Nightbrother village could make him cruel, if Savage _breaking his neck_ couldn’t make him cruel, Savage can hold onto the hope that nothing will.

“Feral is…soft,” he says, thick, and should mean it as a damning indictment of Feral’s character, but—

He thinks of Feral on the floor beside him, curled against his side and telling stories about ridiculous things, every blanket they had piled over them, and his whole chest aches.

The emptiness that usually fills him is so much easier to bear.

“He is,” Sinker says, even, and the weight of his gaze makes Savage’s skin prickle, makes him want to lash out, but—his mind is still calm. Savage can breathe through the urge. “He kept telling us stories about you.”

There's a tremor in Savage’s veins that he _hates_ , because it feels like vulnerability. “Me?” he echoes, and Sinker hums.

“About the big brother he grew up with,” he says, “and how you’d wrestle with him. Made him scrappy. Hard to pin. I know he kicked my commander’s ass at least once with a move he used to use on you.”

Savage digs his fingers into his forehead, his cheeks. Wants to laugh, but—it would fracture him right apart if he did. “That foot to the chest,” he says roughly. “And then he slams you into the ground like an overturned swamp crab, flat on your back.”

Sinker snorts, and his amusement washes through Savage, eases a little of the brittle feeling like he’s blunting all of Savage’s broken pieces. Not all the way, not all of them, but—it’s not Talzin’s avaricious amusement, or Maul's dark, bitter humor. “That’s the one,” Sinker says. “Commander Wolffe’s usually the best at hand to hand, but hells, I wish I’d been able to see his face when he hit the dirt like that the first time.”

That’s admiration. Admiration for Feral, for his skill, for his kindness. Savage opens his eyes, staring at his palms, and—it shouldn’t be jarring to hear. Feral was one of the best warriors in the village; it’s why Ventress picked him. He would have likely won the first Trial if Ventress hadn’t turned her attention to Savage, making Feral protect him. But—

Feral isn't a good Sith. His anger fades quickly, and even after Maul's most ruthless training sessions, Feral would rather quietly retreat than rage against him. Savage thinks of training with Dooku, the constant onslaught of lightning, Dooku hurting him until hate and rage were all he can feel, and—it’s still enough to twist horror through Savage’s chest, the idea that Feral could have taken his place as Dooku's apprentice.

He hadn’t been able to think of much then, too twisted up in the Nightsisters’ control, but he’d known even then that there was a _reason_ it was him and not someone else in that position.

“He said,” Sinker offers, quiet, “that he learned it because of you. Because you’d collapse on top of him and flatten him, and you were always so much bigger that he had to fight dirty.”

The sound that jars out of Savage’s throat isn't quite laughter, but it’s ragged amusement at the very least, and he lifts his head, well able to remember the twisting, the complaints. “He’d _wriggle_ ,” he says. “And growl at me. His growls sound like they're from a Zabrak four times his size.”

“Really?” Sinker asks, sounding delighted, and he sinks back in his seat, smirking. “He’s never growled that I've heard it. Bet Wolffe’s going to have a kriffing _heart attack_ , the first time he hears that.”

Wolffe. The one who Sinker said had Feral, and likely the clone who drugged him. Savage doesn’t let himself think of the memory of Feral collapsing, going limp, vanishing from Savage’s senses like his mind had been blotted out. Feral _agreed_ to that, he thinks, and lets himself accept it. Feral knew what was happening, and he and Wolffe had come up with a solution. That…sounds like Feral. He’s clever. Good at planning and calculations.

“You said Wolffe was taking him somewhere,” he says gruffly. “Where?”

There's a pause, and when Savage raises his head again, Sinker is watching him thoughtfully. “If I tell you something, will the Nightsisters hear it?” he asks.

Savage pauses, startled. That’s…not something he’d considered before. Not something he _wants_ to consider. They're in his head, but—

He closes his eyes, seeking out the threads of their control. That acid is eating at the edges of his mind, trying to get in, but…Savage still owns his own mind. The anger is there, and always has been, but it’s _his_. Not theirs. Savage isn't theirs, either.

“No,” he says, almost a growl. “They don’t control my mind. They never will again.”

“All right,” Sinker says, easy belief that makes something in Savage’s throat tight. If he _knew_ —

But he doesn’t, and he can't, and Savage will never regret that the Nightsisters haven’t gotten their claws in another person.

“You know where Wolffe took Feral?” he asks.

Sinker shakes his head. “I got a second-hand message from General Koon telling me to get you into hyperspace. The general was worried about spies, though, so he probably didn’t give Wolffe an exact location to head for.”

“Spies,” Savage echoes, frowning, and—he remembers Maul's comm call with Mother Talzin, a sinking feeling in his chest. “Maul knew to go to Sekind because of rumors among some of the cartels.”

Sinker pauses for a moment, frowning, but—it’s all concern, not anger. “We checked the planet’s records for ships registered to Dathomir. Your ship was the _Nightbrother_ , right?” When Savage inclines his head, Sinker grimaces. “Then the _Banshee_ was probably Ventress. She got here well before you. Probably around about the time Feral was captured.”

Anger _tears_ , rips and claws its way through Savage’s gut, and he snarls, surging to his feet. With a loud crack, the back of the seat crumples under his grip, but he’s too angry to pause, to notice. He wrenches away—

Almost into Sinker, who’s right in front of him, hands raised and open. “Savage,” he says, and it would be so _easy_ for Savage to go right through him, to tear him apart. Savage’s lightsaber is on his belt, and he reaches for it, for the Force, for the strength that his hatred brings—

And like a hammer-blow, he sees Feral. Feral in a cell, hands cuffed, but smiling. There's a heart-shaped fruit in his hands, pale gold in the low light, and Feral is laughing at something a scowling clone with a cybernetic eye is saying to another trooper. It’s not one of Savage’s memories, but just for a moment, he feels like it is. Like he’s standing there, like he could reach out and touch Feral, like Feral is about to turn that smile on _him_.

Savage swallows, and like water draining from a cracked vessel, his anger is already slipping away. Settling, easing, being replaced by the ache of loss and the unnervingly bitter edge of _want_. Savage wants to be there, wants Feral to smile at him again. Wants them to be back in the Nightbrother village, in their small house, with no knowledge of who Asajj Ventress is or what part the Nightsisters are trying to play in the war.

With a shuddering breath, Savage takes a step back, another. Sinks down, all but collapsing to the ground and grabbing his own horns as he fights the grief. Feral will _never_ smile at him like that again. Feral can't even stand to have Savage _touch_ him. Like an endless loop his mind replays that moment in the port, the way he’d wrapped an arm around Feral only to have him jerk back. Feral’s fear in that moment had been a barbed whip, an impact that drew blood. Deserved, entirely, but—

“I guess that worked,” Sinker says quietly, and a moment later he crouches down in front of Savage, reaching out. The touch of his hand against Savage’s horns brings the cool, still pool of his mind into focus, and Savage grits his teeth, loosens his grip. Sinker’s fingers brush his own, cooler than a Zabrak and callused from a blaster instead of an axe or spear, but it still echoes a touch from a long time ago. Echoes _Feral_ , sitting above him on his bed as he tinkered with an old transponder and occasionally reaching out to brush Savage’s horns. A touch that was safety, and home, and everything that Savage has torn apart with his own hands in the time since.

“You—clones can't use the Force,” he manages, and Sinker snorts.

“No,” he agrees. “But thinking something really hard isn't exactly hyperdrive science.” There's a pause, and then he says wryly, “I figured Feral would calm you down. Not…”

Wound him. Wound him somewhere deep and bitter that no one else will ever reach. Savage closes his eyes, and the gentle brush of Sinker’s fingers over his horns uncoils some of the tension in his spine, slides down through his nerves and blunts a little more of the rage that always simmers in his chest.

Ever since his training with Dooku, there's been…numbness, sometimes, or oversensitivity, or muscle spasms on the very worst days, and Savage has pushed through each one. But the cool brush of Sinker’s fingers feels strangely like a balm, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s touching Savage at all. Maul is uncomfortable with touch, wasn’t raised with any of the rituals or habits of a village full of Zabraks. The clones are only Human, can't understand, but—

This is the closest Savage has had to normal touch since the last of Ventress’s Trials.

“My brother was _taken_ from me,” he says, almost a threat, but some of the bite has gone out of his voice. Sinker is watching him, and for an instant Savage wants to be _angry_ that a clone would be so kind, that he’d be willing to touch Savage when no one else would, that he’s _here_ and Feral and Maul aren’t. Sinker’s mind is still cool and calm, though, and his dark eyes are steady, not full of fear.

Savage had him by the neck earlier. He almost did to Sinker what he did to Feral, because Ventress was in his head again.

With a low, rough growl, Savage hunches forward, hiding his face as he tries to breathe again. There’s a pause in Sinker’s touch, but a moment later a body slides in beside Savage, close enough that they're pressed together from knee to shoulder but not close enough to be oppressive, and Sinker pulls off his other gauntlet, eyes on the armor instead of Savage.

“Touch helps?” he asks quietly.

Savage grits his teeth, but nods, and tries not to lean into Sinker’s weight. Not like Feral, but—something. Something Savage shouldn’t have, because he should kill Sinker and take the ship, find Feral and Maul, and yet—

“We should probably pick somewhere to hole up for a while,” Sinker says, still calm, quiet. “The general’s going to be looking into things, but it will take time, and I’ve got to reset the ship’s codes, so. Somewhere that doesn’t mind people on the far side of the law. Preferably not a Separatist world, either, because they’ll take one look at me and string me up in the town square.”

Because he’s a clone. Savage grimaces, and instinct says to return to Dathomir, to go home, but—Dathomir hasn’t been any sort of home since he murdered Feral.

“There are still neutral worlds in the Outer Rim,” he says gruffly. “The Mandalore system, maybe.”

There's a pause, and Sinker makes a thoughtful sound, turning his gauntlet over in his hands. “Mandalore could work,” he says. “The New Mandalorians are in charge, though, and anyone who looks like a warrior there is going to raise some eyebrows. Concordia seems like a better option.”

Savage pauses, frowning as he tries to remember all the particulars of the system. “The mining colony,” he says.

Sinker hums, though there's something rueful to the curl of his thoughts. “Our original, Jango Fett—his father Jaster Mereel led the True Mandalorians in the Mandalorian Civil War, but when Jango disappeared and the war ended, all of the warriors of Mandalore were exiled to Concordia, which was pretty much just a barren wasteland of beskar mines. A lot of the trainers we had on Kamino were exiles who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Jango picked them himself, I think.”

Savage scoffs, offended by the very idea. “ _All_ of the warriors? Who would defend the system?”

Sinker just shrugged. “I think they assume they don’t need anyone to defend them if they're not out there picking fights. But I was raised for war, so what do I know?”

Savage grunts, unimpressed, and lets himself uncurl a little, glad to have something else to focus on. “Those who don’t fight back when attacked die quickly,” he says flatly, and thinks of the Nightbrothers killed in Ventress’s Trial, all the Trials before hers. It was never _enough_ just to fight back, but—it at least felt like they were doing something.

With a quietly amused snort, Sinker tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “I think we’re both biased here,” he says. “Nightbrothers are raised fighting, right? Like clones.”

A thread of anger curls in Savage’s gut, but—it’s an _old_ anger, not a new one brought on by Dooku or Ventress. “If Nightbrothers can't fight, we are useless to the Nightsisters,” he says, and it should be neutral, because he’s still a Nightbrother, but—the disgust is louder than normal. “The Nightsisters want us well-trained, but never as well-trained as they are. The Brothers are good for making champions, or for—” He closes his eyes, the words dying in his mouth, but he knows what he _thought_ when Ventress came to the village. And he was right, in a way.

It’s still better that it was him. Feral could have won the Trials. He was always skilled enough. But the aftermath—

“I hate them,” Savage growls, and digs his nails into the metal of the decking. “They take us, and _use_ us, and their magic plays with our minds, our _lives_ —”

There's a breath, and then Sinker’s hand curls over Savage’s. It’s a touch so gentle it startles him, stops the words in his throat, because Sinker isn't grabbing, isn't trying anything. His hand is bare, and his fingers are broad but deft as he slides them over Savage’s. With a care that isn't needed, he lifts Savage’s hand away from the decking before he can cut himself on the rough metal, and says, “Yeah. You’ve got a right to, after all of this. And that’s only what I know about.”

No one has ever said that. Savage closes his eyes, and all he can focus on is Sinker’s hand wrapped around his knuckles. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t know if he wants to shake Sinker off or turn his hand to grip in return.

“I've always hated them,” he says, so rough the words are hardly clear. “Even before. If I could have slaughtered my way through their temple, I would have. I would have destroyed every last one of them and felt _glee._ ”

Sinker’s quiet for a moment, then breathes out. “You know why Feral didn’t kill me?” he asks. “At the comm tower. I asked him once. He said it was because I was protecting my brothers. And that reminded him of someone else.”

Savage’s breath jars out of his chest, as sharp as broken glass, and his muscles twitch, his hand going tight around Sinker’s for an instant. He doesn’t know what to do, how to react. Feral is still—

“Hey,” Sinker says quietly, and he shifts, pushes up on one knee in front of Savage. “It’s good, right? He loves you.”

There's something hot and tangled in Savage’s chest that isn't anger, for once. He can hardly breathe through it, can hardly _think_ , but he hisses, digs his fingers into his face and tries not to think of that moment in the Nightsisters’ temple, the way he’d _known_ it was wrong, that he shouldn’t. Trying not to remember the crack of Ventress’s hand against his cheek, the way it echoed in his head and he’d known he’d _displeased_ her, and how in the wake of that it was so very easy to reach down and take her victim by the throat.

_Feral_. Take _Feral_ by the throat.

“He _shouldn’t_ ,” Savage snarls, because everything, _everything_ breaks beneath his hands. Only Maul has managed to survive, and Savage _knows_ how much he hates Savage’s rages. Too much even for a Sith, and Savage would laugh if he didn’t feel like he was about to lose control. “He should _never_ look at me, or think of me, or—”

“He’s your brother,” Sinker says. “I don’t think you get to make that choice for him, Savage.”

“ _I'm the one who broke his neck_!” Savage snarls, surging to his feet. He rounds on Sinker, fury and guilt beating a tattoo in his chest, and growls, “I'm the one who killed him!”

Silence. Perfect, ringing silence as Savage breathes out rage and aching grief, and Sinker stares up at him, clearly caught off guard. He’s a clone, and he means absolutely _nothing_ to Savage, and yet—

Savage turns away, not able to look at his face. Breathes, and wants to drive his fist into the wall, and the sound in his ears is all the crack of breaking bones, the thud of Feral’s body hitting the floor.

He’d called Savage _brother_ right up until the last moment, when he stopped being able to speak at all.

There's a pause, deliberate, careful, and then a scuff of movement. Savage twitches, tenses like he’s braced for a blow, for lightning—

Sinker’s hand against his back is deliberate, firm. “He looks pretty spry for a dead body,” he says, and his voice is steady despite what Savage just told him. “Whatever happened, I'm guessing you didn’t _want_ to kill him.”

“I did,” Savage says, furious, and digs his nails into his palms. “She was all I could think about, and I dropped him at her feet like a dog asking for a reward. I _killed_ him.”

Another pause, but this time it’s sharper. There's an edge of something close to anger behind it, but—quiet anger, deep-seated and cold. It barely bubbles to the surface, and when it does, it freezes there. “You said you’d been controlled before,” Sinker says slowly. “The Nightsisters controlled you into killing Feral.”

It’s not a question, so Savage doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps his eyes fixed forward. Sinker doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and then he asks, “Is that _her_ Mother Talzin?”

Savage closes his eyes, and it’s like he can still feel the imprint of Ventress’s hands on his skin. His body _crawls_ , but—she isn't here. He beat her attempt at mind control. He almost killed her, when she tried to make him fight Dooku.

“Ventress,” he growls. “But it was Mother Talzin’s magic.”

“Guess that’s why Feral flinched,” Sinker says, and it’s not light, even if he’s trying for an edge of humor. “Bad memories.”

“He’s _afraid_ of me,” Savage snaps, and it still hurts. “And he should be!”

For a long, long moment, Sinker doesn’t say anything. Then, quiet, he offers, “People can't control their reactions. Feral still loves you. His fear doesn’t, but that’s not him.” A pause, and he snorts. His hand flattens against Savage’s spine, and Savage catches a flicker of memory, space and debris and red emergency lights, the metallic edge of old fear. “Feral’s smart. He knows that you didn’t want to do it, or he wouldn’t still talk about you the way he does.”

“You don’t _know_ ,” Savage snarls, rounding on him, shaking off that hand on his spine. Sinker doesn’t even take a step back, though, and Savage pulls up short rather than hitting him, rather than grabbing him. Sinker’s just watching him, steady and unwavering, and Savage’s breath rattles in his chest. He falters, and Sinker smiles a little crookedly.

“Come on,” he says. “I should change course and head us for the Mandalore system, and I think you need to sit down for a bit and tell me about what a little bastard Feral was growing up.”

Savage closes his eyes tightly for a moment. Tries to find words, and finally settles on, “Most people think he’s…quiet. Demure.”

“Yeah, but I've heard him sass Wolffe,” Sinker says, amused, and when he turns towards the front of the ship, Savage finds himself following. “There’s no way he wasn’t _worse_ as a teenager.”

“Cocky,” Savage says, rasping in his throat, because it hurts to remember what Feral was like before Ventress came seeking pawns for her revenge. “He was—overconfident, sometimes. And always clever with words. Brother Viscus hated him, I think. Both of us, but—for different reasons.”

Sinker casts him a look as he settles into the pilot’s seat. “Let me guess. He didn’t like that you hated the Nightsisters?”

Savage scoffs, avoiding the crumpled ruin of the back of his own seat. “I…talked,” he says, and it’s hard to remember that righteous sort of indignation, the resolve to make things _better_. He’s always been angry, but—once, it didn’t destroy everything he touched. “Too much.”

Sinker doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to blunt the words. Just takes them with a nod, and says, “Talking too much on Kamino could get a clone sent for reeducation. Less so since General Ti took over, at least from what Comet was telling me.”

Savage scoffs, very deliberately keeping his hands away from anything he might break. “Brother Viscus might have sent me to the Nightsisters to be punished, but—we were Mother Talzin’s blood. She wanted to keep her line intact.”

“I'm sure Feral appreciated it.” Sinker calls up the hyperdrive, frowning at the coordinates for a moment before he inputs the new grid point. “We should get to the right hyperlane in a few hours, and then it will be about half a day to Concordia. Enough pirates and smugglers land there that we should be able to find a spot even without new codes.”

“If there are criminals, Maul's contacts should get us what we need,” Savage says, and—he doesn’t tend to make the connections, or speak to people Maul makes deals with. His temper is too volatile, and he’s never had much interest in the mind games Maul plays. He should be able to at least reach out to them, though, and secure the ship a safe place to land. Pausing, he considers for a moment, and then frowns and says, “If Mandalore exiled all of their warriors to one of the moons, how do they prevent them from rising up and returning?”

Sinker shrugs. “There's a man loyal to the Duchess of Mandalore in charge there. Pre Vizsla, I think. His father was the leader of the other faction in the Civil War, so I assume he knows how to control the masses.”

Savage snorts, disgusted. “Does the duchess preach pacifism or just keeping her hands clean?” he asks, because authorizing another to use force on her behalf doesn’t seem overly peaceful to him.

Sinker’s smile is crooked. “Yeah, well, just the fact that she’s letting the son of a terrorist hold a position of high authority is probably a bad sign.” He sits back, stretching his arms out with a quiet sigh, and asks, “Want to keep talking, or do you need some rest? I figure getting the general’s lightning to the brain isn’t exactly easy.”

Savage doesn’t say he’s used to it. “Talk,” he orders, and Sinker slants him an amused look but obeys regardless.

“Trade you stories? Stupid things you and Feral did on Dathomir for stupid things my batchmates and I did on Kamino.”

Thinking about Feral as he was will hurt, but—Savage weighs the pain against thinking only of now, and that makes it an easy choice. “Fine,” he says, curt, even though just this much conversation has made the whispers and green light fade to almost nothing.

Mandalore doesn’t feel like it’s far enough, in the scheme of things, but at the very least it’s a destination. From there, they can start trying to figure out where Maul and Feral went, and finally save them. Savage won't be able to live with himself if he fails them both.


	23. Chapter 23

Maul even mutters in his sleep.

Padmé has checked on him enough to drive herself a little crazy, and he’s been fine every single time, so she’s very firmly ignoring it for now, letting the hissing whispers and muttered half-words become background noise as she focuses on the surface of her tea. It’s not a blend she’s had before, not nearly as carefully crafted and balanced as the ones she’s used to, but it’s bright and floral and she’s more than happy to wrap her hands around the warm cup and just sit for a moment.

It will still be a handful of hours to Scarif, and Padmé still hasn’t come to any sort of conclusion about what they're going to do after that.

“Senator,” Fox says, startling her, and Padmé glances back, around the edge of the chair, to find Fox approaching with one of the blankets from the bunkroom. His hair is mussed, and he looks tired, pained, but Padmé already searched the ship for any sort of bone-mender and couldn’t find anything, so that will have to wait for Scarif, too.

“Commander,” she returns, and starts to sit up into a position a little more suited to her office. Before she can unfold her legs, though, Fox raises a hand, stilling her, and then offers the blanket.

“Found a spare,” he says. “If you want it, Senator.”

“Thank you, Commander, I appreciate it.” Padmé balances her tea on the arm of her chair, taking the blanket and pulling it over herself. It smells musty, a little odd, but the ship is cool enough that she doesn’t mind, and she curls into it, tugging it up and then wrapping her hands around her tea again. “There’s more hot water in the galley if you want some tea.”

Fox gives the cup a suspicious look as he eases himself down in the other chair. “Does it have caffeine?”

Padmé, who’s heard the same question from Sabé more than once, hides a grin. “I'm afraid not.”

Wrinkling his nose, Fox deliberately looks away. “Then what’s the point?” There's a pause as he seems to realize what he said, and then he grimaces. “Sorry, Senator, I—”

“Call me Padmé,” she suggests gently. “I understand if you want to keep to ranks, Commander, but this doesn’t seem like the sort of situation that’s covered by protocol rules.”

Fox snorts softly, and the tight line of his spine eases just a little as he slumps, rubbing his good hand over his face. “Not quite,” he says sardonically, and then, more quietly, “Padmé. You look like you were thinking about something heavy.”

Padmé smiles at him in thanks, then takes another sip of her tea. Pauses, letting the taste of unfamiliar flowers spread across her tongue, and then swallows and says, “I was just thinking about the fight. Ventress was almost beaten anyway—she didn’t _need_ to control Maul, because there were enough opponents that she would have had to retreat either way.”

Fox frowns, his grip tightening a little on the arm of the chair before he deliberately lifts his hand away. “You think it was part of a plan,” he says, on the edge of harsh.

Padmé breathes out, and it’s something that’s been buried in the back of her mind since it happened, a thread of suspicion trained by too much intrigue from a young age. Ventress is clever. She saw that Maul was there, that he arrived with Padmé, and _that_ was the moment she started targeting him.

“Ventress and Maul weren’t allies, but they knew each other,” she says. “Master Plo captured Maul's brother, so Ventress came to get him back. Not just from Plo, but from Maul.”

For a moment, Fox is silent. Then, slowly, he sinks back in his seat. Hesitates, then props his boot on the edge of the console. His eyes flicker to Padmé for an instant, like he’s checking for her reaction, but Padmé just gives him a crooked smile. It’s not she’s about to cry about propriety and Coruscanti manners when she’s sitting here in a ripped dress, her hair down, her legs pulled up beneath her.

“You think that Ventress was doing damage control,” Fox says after a second, and he relaxes a little. Enough to tip his head back against the seat, the starlight catching on the grey threads at his temples, the stubble that’s growing in on his jaw. “Separating people who might have information to share.”

Padmé inclines her head. “She said the Nightsisters were in his mind for a long time. That they _fixed_ him. If they took that away…”

Fox casts a glance back, just as one of Maul's hissing growls peaks. “Then he couldn’t tell anyone what he knew about them,” he finishes grimly. “Or anyone else.”

“Yes.” Padmé watches a few stray leaves bob across the surface of her tea, then closes her eyes. “We _need_ to know that name, Commander. Whoever the Sith in the Senate is, they’ve been funneling information to the Separatists right from the start, and it keeps drawing the war out. We’re not even _allowed_ to hold peace talks, or negotiate for _anything_. This war could have been over months ago, but someone is sabotaging all of our efforts at peace, and the Senate is going along with it out of fear and greed.”

Silence, stretching between them. Fox is watching her, Padmé knows, but it takes her a long moment to gather herself enough to look back. Fox’s eyes are dark, and the slant of his mouth is something almost rueful, touched with a weariness Padmé can feel in her bones.

“Would you?” he asks finally. “Negotiate. If you had the chance.”

“Yes,” Padmé says without hesitation. “It’s the very _first_ thing I would do. The Separatists have every reason to think the Senate is corrupt, but tearing the whole system down will kill far too many people to even consider it. We have to work to reform it instead, and bring ourselves back to where we should be.”

Fox is watching her, careful, considering. This is about the moment where Anakin tells her not to worry, that the Senate is fine and the Jedi will win the war and that she shouldn’t work too hard, but—

Anakin isn't here, and Padmé can still feel relieved about that, even in the midst of everything. That probably means she made the right choice in ending things.

“Seems like the Chancellor is the one who should be talking that way,” Fox finally offers, and it’s perfectly bland.

Padmé gives him a rueful smile, pulling her legs a little tighter against her chest. “I'm sorry,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about politics—”

Fox shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he says, and he’s still looking. It makes Padmé want to twist her hands together, look away, but she doesn’t let herself. “It just sounds like you're thinking about how to end the war. More than some people.”

More than Sheev. Padmé swirls her tea gently in the cup, and—she’s had suspicions for a while now, vague thoughts that slant towards concern more and more as the war stretches. The Chancellor is a friend, was a mentor, is someone she’s known well since she was a little girl, and she’s one of the reasons he’s in power, but—

He has too _much_ power now. Too many special war powers, too many ways to cut into freedom and override the will of the people in the Republic. He’s installing governments on whole planets that were once democracies in their own right, and Padmé thinks of him outlawing peace talks, or any sort of overture towards the Separatists, and feels something cold knot in her chest.

“I know it’s not simple,” she says quietly. “I know I'm…idealistic, thinking about it this way. But if we don’t try, we don’t deserve any sort of moral high ground. I will _never_ trust the Trade Federation or any of their allies, but—there are people on the other side with understandable grievances, and I want to respect that.”

“Believe me, Senator,” Fox says sardonically, “if there’s a way for you and the rest of the Senate to stop my brothers from dying by the thousands, I'm for it.” He stops, then grimaces, rubbing a hand over his face, and says, “I apologize—”

“You don’t need to,” Padmé says swiftly, and gives him a smile. “I hope we get to negotiate, and end the war in a way that isn't a bloodbath for both sides. Senator Av’Lya was working on that, through neutral planets, and he wasn’t the only one.”

“Probably what got him killed,” Fox says flatly, and Padmé inclines her head.

“Almost certainly. But at least we get to choose what we’re willing to die for.”

Fox pauses, and Padmé can't read his expression in the half-light, but the slant of it is something sharp, something full of cutting edges. He watches her, broken arm on his lap, eyes dark, and then, just a little, he smiles. It’s crooked, rueful, but when he tips his head there’s dark humor in his gaze.

“And you want to die digging up a Sith Lord?”

Padmé gives him her most courtly smile, perfectly pretty and full of steel. “If that’s what it takes, Commander? Of course.”

“Fox.” He glances towards the sky in front of them, and Padmé can't quite look away from the line of his jaw, the curl of his hair where it’s defiantly over regulation length. There's a scar that crosses his cheek, thin and white, and faint lines around his eyes, more likely from stress than age. Padmé hadn’t noticed that before. “I don’t think you should keep calling me by my rank when I'm calling you by your given name.”

Padmé weighs responses for a moment, still not quite able to look away from his face in the starlight. “If that’s what you want,” she finally says. “I wouldn’t object, if you didn’t want me using your name. I know they're personal.”

Fox snorts quietly. “They're personal because we get to choose them. I’d rather you use my name.” A pause, and he breathes out, then says, “But. Thank you.”

“With the Royal Handmaidens, we try to avoid using names in public,” Padmé says, and feels Fox’s eyes on her as she gently swirls her tea. “Only titles, for safety, and so that we can switch places more easily.”

With a thoughtful sound, Fox settles back, frowning a little as he considers that. “No clone wants to be able to switch places with a brother,” he says. “It’s wrong.”

“Naboo has a history of assassinations and political maneuvering that has a high body count,” Padmé says quietly. “The Handmaidens grew out of that tradition, but they go in knowing what will be asked of them. They have a choice.”

Not like the clones, she thinks, and closes her eyes. Remembers Shmi, on Tatooine, and her kindness, and the way something in Padmé’s chest had gone cold and tight when Sabé returned, unable to find Shmi. And then, in that bright morning on Tatooine, with Anakin carrying his mother’s body home, and the ringing sense of _I failed her_ that ate at her heart.

Tatooine isn't a Republic world. Padmé can't do anything about slavery there, can't inject herself and Naboo into the affairs of a Hutt world without risking a war that will kill far too many people. But—

It hurts. She _wants_ to help, wants to put the full force of her influence and political power behind making things better, because otherwise what use is it?

She’s seeing far too many things that hit like that, these days.

The Republic’s slavery first, Padmé tells herself, closing her eyes. The clones need citizenship, and freedom, and some sort of system set up to care for them after the war ends. Then she can think of other things. The Chancellor has been resisting any attempts to address the fact that the Republic is using slave armies, but Padmé has to keep trying. And if she can root out the Sith Lord, maybe it will be easier to destroy his influence, make people see matters clearly again.

“How much choice did _you_ have?” Fox asks, and when Padmé glances up, he’s still watching her, expression unreadable.

“Enough,” Padmé says firmly. “I made my own decision to run for queen. My family…once I changed my name, the pressure on them lessened, and they supported me. Just…from a distance.”

Surprise flickers over Fox’s face. “You changed your name?” he asks, frowning.

Padmé inclines her head. “I was born Padmé Naberrie, but most rulers of Naboo take on a different name, to distance themselves from what family they have. I was assessed to have a potential for public service as a child, and we were told then if we trained for and ran to be queen, we would likely have to choose another.”

“Assessed,” Fox repeats, and snorts softly. “Sounds like us getting assessed for command potential by the trainers.”

Padmé gives him a faintly rueful smile. “Naboo has very old and weighty customs around civic duty and service to the people, so I assume there are at least a few similarities.”

Fox is silent for another moment, considering, and then looks away. Breathes in, breathes out, and says, “I was expecting you to head for General Skywalker. After Sekind.”

The words strike true. Padmé closes her eyes for a moment, then carefully leans down to set her tea on the floor. “Anakin and I divorced,” she says, and sees Fox go still in surprise. “Our marriage was never officially filed, so—it was a divorce in name only, but I didn’t like who he made me into, and all the love in the universe couldn’t change that.” She stops herself, takes a breath. Fox didn’t ask her to air grievances, and he probably doesn’t want to hear them at all. “Anakin is likely taking things…badly. Putting myself in front of him right now, particularly when I'm in danger, seems like a poor choice for everyone.”

It takes a long, long minute before Fox moves. “I didn’t think Jedi were supposed to get married,” he says warily.

“They're not.” Padmé pauses, considers that, and then breathes out, twisting her fingers into her braid. “Or—it’s allowed for some, I think. But Anakin shouldn’t have been married. _I_ shouldn’t have married him. He’s…possessive. He gets angry. He’s done…” She falters, thinking of Anakin on Tatooine, crying and furious, and his words about the Tusken village. Swallowing, she looks away, because she was a part of that. Because she _accepted_ that, and had to try to justify it, and she _had_. To Anakin and herself both.

It scares her, how easily she was able to brush it aside when she was caught up in everything. When she was in _love_ , and Anakin was a hero, bright and strong and grieving, and—

Well. This has likely been building for a while, ever since the incident with Cad Bane in the Senate. In the aftermath, when Anakin had left to speak with the Council, Padmé had gone back to her office, and just…thought. Remembered Anakin's words before they were interrupted, the disregard that stung so deeply, and—

It made her think about _everything_ , sitting alone in her apartment. Made her remember, and consider, and weigh her own place in the midst of things, and she hadn’t liked the results.

Anakin forbidding her from going to Sekind was just a step ahead towards the inevitable, and she had hesitated, but. In the end, it had been the only possible choice, and she doesn’t regret making it.

“Terrible things,” she finally finishes, sinking her fingers into her braid. “He did terrible things, and I _let_ him.”

Something flickers across Fox’s face, like quiet alarm, and he frowns deeply, pushes up a little as he drops his foot from the console. “Senator, if there’s something you need to report, the Guard can help you. Or we can escort you to the Order at the very least.”

Padmé closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn’t want to think about her part in it. But— “Padmé,” she says, a gentle reminder, and opens her eyes, giving Fox a smile. “Thank you, Fox. When we’re back on Coruscant, I’ll—I’ll need to speak with the Council.”

Fox’s gaze is dark as he watches her, but he inclines his head, slowly sinking back in his seat. “I’ll take you to them myself,” he says. “If you want. A Jedi owes me a favor, and he can get us in secretly, if you want.”

Tension coils through her, and Padmé inclines her head, trying not to let it swallow her whole. “I think that would be for the best,” she says. “Thank you, Fox. I'm grateful.”

Fox looks away, back out the viewscreen, but he nods curtly. “Of course,” he says. Pauses, and then adds, like it’s a defiance, like it’s a _choice_ , “Padmé.”

It makes warmth curl in Padmé’s chest to hear it, to know that it means something, and she smiles, pulling the blanket up a little higher around her shoulders and closing her eyes. They’ll be on Scarif soon, and there isn't much time to rest, but—

She feels lighter than she has in months, and that’s already a help.

Fierce curses pull Feral out of his meditation with a start, and he’s on his feet before he even thinks about moving, heart lodged somewhere high up in his throat.

“Wolffe?” he asks, already heading for the front of the ship as there's a sharp thump, like Wolffe just hit a console.

“Hang on to something,” Wolffe says grimly, as the comm starts beeping insistently. “The troops in orbit wants to know where we’re going.”

And that’s not something they can share, not without some idea of how Mother Talzin gets her information. Feral hurries forward, grabbing the edge of the seat as the ship whirls sideways, and he throws himself down into it. In the viewscreen, a huge cruiser rises, and Wolffe curses again, grabs the yoke. “We don’t have kriffing _codes_.”

Meaning that even if they wanted to comm the cruiser, there's no way to prove their identity. Feral winces, leaning forward to look for some sort of shielding, and asks, “Did we come out of hyperspace on _top_ of them?”

“Just about. Watch for fighters. If they send any after us, we’re going to have to go somewhere else.”

Something cold rises in Feral’s chest. “We can't,” he says. “Master Kolar is here, we _need_ to see him.” It’s a driving urge, like nothing he’s felt before, pure certainty distilled down into instinct. If they leave, something will go wrong. If they leave, something will _be_ wrong. Feral knows it the same way he knows to drink when he’s thirsty, or eat when he’s hungry. It’s not a guess, it’s truth.

Wolffe grunts. “They keep hailing us,” he says. “And pretty soon they're going to stop taking _no_ for an answer. If General Kolar's on that ship, we’re not going to be able to get to him without a lot of explanations we can't risk right now.”

Feral forces himself to breathe in, breathe out. “Jump back to hyperspace,” he says, and when Wolffe slants him a disbelieving look he raises a hand. “Just to the other side of the planet. Master Kolar isn't on the ship. It’s not his.”

Wolffe pauses, startled, and takes another look at the cruiser. Whatever he sees makes him reach for the hyperdrive controls again, and he says, “It’s General Swan’s. She’s supposed to be Roost system.”

“I don’t think there’s a Jedi on board right now,” Feral says, and knows he’s right. “You know her?”

With a grunt, Wolffe activates the hyperdrive, and the stars blur just for an instant before they reemerge into normal space, this time empty of other ships. There's a moon slightly too close for comfort, but Wolffe skirts it with a hard jerk sideways and says, “General Swan trained under General Koon. I've met her.”

Another Jedi. Tension knots in Feral’s stomach, and he checks the comm, more for something to do with his hands than for any other reason. It’s quiet now, and he deliberately switches it off, then glances up at the red-yellow planet filling the viewscreen. Just the thought of trying to find Agen Kolar already makes Feral feel tense and unsettled, but—

He stops, blinks. “Do you think Plo sent her?” he asks, and—it feels like the right conclusion. Plo couldn’t give them directions outright, but he sent his former padawan to the same place he wanted them to go.

Wolffe frowns, but it’s more considering than anything. “He could have,” he allows. “Now we just need to find them in the middle of a planet-wide desert.”

Feral hesitates, but after a second he leans forward, scanning the map. Tries to keep his mind empty his breathing even, and finally reaches out, touching a point where two mountain ranges meet. “Here,” he says quietly. “I think that’s where they are.”

Wolffe looks at the spot on the map, then up at him, and rolls his eyes. “Jedi and Sith _both_ ,” he mutters, but the ship starts to descend, and a moment later they're dropping through patchy clouds and into a storm of dust and sand that’s thick enough to blot out the land below.

“Both what?” Feral asks, a little miffed, and Wolffe snorts.

“Both give me a headache,” he says. “If you're still tapped into the mystical forces of the universe, tell me where to land. This storm’s karking up the sensors.”

“It’s just a _feeling_ ,” Feral retorts, but he leans forward, glancing from the map to the viewscreen and back with a frown. There’s probably a spot, but…he can't pick it out. “By the mountains, maybe? It looks like there's a canyon over there that runs sideways to the wind.”

Wolffe makes a sound of acknowledgement, and the ship rises above the dust-storm for a moment, then drops, and the sudden break in the dust is almost jarring as walls of stone rise on either side of them. The canyon starts out wide, wide enough for two of their ships abreast, but a few hundred meters ahead of them Feral can see that it narrows until even a speeder would have trouble fitting. There's a river, too, running close to the canyon wall where it’s wide, and Feral can feel the urge to follow it. Illogical, unfounded, but—Agen Kolar is on the other end of that tug, he’s sure of it.

“At least we’re out of sight if anyone comes looking,” Wolffe says a little sourly, and the ship settles with a light tremor. He leans forward, punching in a string of commands, and then rises. “The codes will reset while we’re gone. We’d better not need to leave suddenly.”

“Which means we’re probably going to have to,” Feral says, a little wry, and Wolffe snorts.

He looks Feral over for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then asks, “Do you think you can find General Kolar in all of this?”

Feral hesitates, biting his lip. He’s _bad_ with the Force, and even on missions with Savage and Maul, he always tries to keep in contact over comms, regardless of whether he’s infiltrating a place or just keeping their ship ready. Asking him to trust his instincts to guide them through terrain on an unknown planet seems…risky.

“You got us this far,” Wolffe says, and when Feral looks at him, helpless and uncertain, Wolffe rolls his eyes, grabs him by the upper arm and hauls him to his feet. “Come on. Either you can or you can't, but you won't know until you try.”

“If I get us lost, it’s going to be your fault,” Feral retorts, but he lets Wolffe steer him towards the ramp.

“If you get us lost, it should at least keep Ventress off our tail.” Wolffe grabs his hood, jerking it up and over his head, and says, “Wrap the bottom of that over your face. The dust here can kill you if you breathe too much of it.”

Feral shifts the hood as best he can, wishing for his scarf, but—this is the best he can do right now. “What about you?”

Wolffe gives him a look, then deliberately pulls his helmet on. “Air filters,” he says pointedly, and Feral rolls his eyes right back at him. The first step into the wind distracts him, though, and even if they aren’t in the full force of it, it still buffets him, almost knocking him back on his heels as it whistles down the narrow canyon. There's a strange echo to it as well, an undertone that sounds like there are a dozen different directions it’s coming from, and Feral winces.

“It sounds like there's more than one path through,” he says over the whine of it, and the noise isn't helping the low-level ache in his head, left over from both Savage’s punch and the sedative.

“Natural maze,” Wolffe says grimly. “No wonder the generals are holed up here.”

It’s a good defense, Feral will admit. He pauses as Wolffe sets the ship’s systems on lockdown, trying to peer further into the canyon. The river branches almost immediately, though, split by a towering rock carved into strange shapes by natural forces, and there's no way to see much beyond that.

They're not going to be able to hear anyone coming, Feral thinks, and feels a trickle of unease slide down his spine. Droids or clones or Ventress, the wind is going to cover any sort of approach, even with people splashing through the river. He has a bad feeling about this.

“Well?” Wolffe asks, impatient, and Feral grimaces, tightening the cloth across his face.

“I hope your boots are waterproof,” he says, and Wolffe makes a dissatisfied noise but starts walking anyway.

“Waterproof enough. Through the river?”

“I think that’s the only way,” Feral says, and steps into the water. It’s not cold, which is a pleasant surprise, but the current is swifter than he expects for how shallow it is, and that’s going to make keeping their footing tricky.

Right past where the river splits, to the left, the carved-out section widens, but it’s lower. The river looks deeper, too, and Feral peers down it, then turns and looks to the right. A narrower passage, the stone carved into something craggy and looming, but Feral can see sand, and there's an edge of river rocks along the canyon wall that they can probably walk on. Both of them feel like the correct choice, and Feral hesitates, then picks the left-hand side, starting down it with careful steps as the water deepens.

Wolffe follows without comment, though both of his hands stay close to his blasters as he moves. “Keep paying attention to your head, too,” he says gruffly. “We’re out of hyperspace, and I don’t know how far Ventress’s reach is.”

Feral grimaces. “I will,” he promises. The last thing they need right now is Feral getting taken over, forcing Wolffe to knock him out.

It’s not something they should _have_ to worry about, but­—that’s why they're here. With any luck, Agen Kolar will know how to remove the mark and break the Nightsisters’ control, or he’ll know someone who can.

Feral wants that. He wants it _desperately._ Being free of the Nightsisters is something he and Savage used to dream about, and even if this situation is entirely different now, even if all of those dreams have been twisted, Feral still wants to reach them. For who Savage was before the Nightsisters took him, but for himself, too. Giving in to what Mother Talzin wants was always so much easier, but—

_No. it’s not that easy. Stand up and fight._

Feral breathes in, breathes out. With Wolffe half a step behind him, he keeps moving.


	24. Chapter 24

“You know,” Wolffe says pointedly, “if you keep leading us in circles Ventress is _definitely_ going to be able to catch up.”

“One circle,” Feral protests, even though the rock in front of them looks suspiciously familiar. “I led us in _a_ circle. We haven’t been past here more than once.”

Wolffe’s expression is entirely hidden behind his helmet, but Feral can _feel_ the unimpressed look that’s being leveled at the back of his head. It doesn’t matter, though; there are no footprints, given that they're still calf-deep in water, and if Wolffe isn't actively going to call him on the possible lie, he’s going to let it stand.

“Your Force sense malfunctioning?” Wolffe asks after a long moment that makes it clear he _could_ say something more disparaging, but is refraining.

Feral winces, reaching up to tug at his broken horn. “It’s not like it comes with a _map_ ,” he says. “It’s just…a feeling. A hunch.”

There's a low sigh, aggrieved and annoyed. “Don’t make me any more reluctant to pay attention to it,” Wolffe says sourly, and splashes through a shallow spot to come and stand next to Feral. Ahead of them, the river splits, and the path they just took is the shallowest, the slowest. It had looked promising, when Feral first paused here, but now he’s not entirely confident that he was actually feeling the Force and not just his own cold feet that want relief from wading over slippery rocks.

Doubt turning in his stomach, Feral looks away from the looping channel, towards the others. There are seven of them, most narrow and swift-moving, a few wider and deeper. On every side, the towering cliffs block the light and cast deep shadows, and Feral has no idea how long a cycle on this planet is, but there's a trickle of fear that’s only getting worse as the day stretches. When night falls, this canyon is going to become almost impossible to navigate, and there doesn’t seem to be any place to get out of the water except a handful of tall boulders that won't precisely be comfortable for sleeping.

Of course, they could turn around and go back to the ship, but that will put them hours behind next time they try to find their way through. And, if Feral’s instincts really _aren’t_ reliable, there's no saying the Jedi are even here at all. They could be—

“Stop it,” Wolffe says curtly, and hooks a hand around Feral’s horns, tugging pointedly. His gauntlets are rough, damp, and Feral twitches a little at the strange feeling but doesn’t duck away. He lets Wolffe pull him in a little closer, aiming him towards the seven splinter canyons, and follows the jab of Wolffe’s finger towards them.

“Look at them,” he says. “Then close your eyes.”

Feral shoots him an annoyed look, and the order is enough to make him reach up, batting at Wolffe’s hand. “I _have_ looked at them—”

“Then just close your eyes,” Wolffe says, unbudging.

“Wolffe, I _can't_ tell—”

“ _Close your eyes_.”

That’s a definite bark of command, sharp and set enough that Feral finds himself obeying despite his intentions. He snaps his eyes tightly closed, and Wolffe grunts, satisfied.

“Good,” he says. “Name six Nightbrothers.”

“What?” Feral asks, confused, but before he can open his eyes Wolffe slaps a hand over them.

“Eyes closed,” he snaps. “Name six Nightbrothers. _Quickly_.”

Feral growls, but answers, “Viscus, Wrath, Ravage, Claw—”

“Name three plants from Dathomir.”

“What?” Feral protests, reaching for the hand over his eyes. “But you said—”

“Plants. Three of them.”

Feral rolls his eyes, but says, “Hydraatises, brulas, fire lichen—”

“How many moons does Dathomir have?”

“ _Four_ , but why—”

“What are the names of the largest two?”

“Koratas and—”

“Name four dangerous animals,” Wolffe says, and the interruption _again_ makes Feral hiss, tugging at Wolffe’s hand and taking a step back. Wolffe just follows him, though, matches his steps and keeps his hand over Feral’s eyes until Feral backs right up into the face of the cliff.

“Wolffe,” Feral protests, but before he can shove Wolffe away bodily a hand catches his wrist.

“Four animals,” Wolffe says, implacable. “Now.”

Feral has no idea what this is about, no idea what Wolffe even _wants_ , but clearly he’s not going to take no for an answer. With a huff, he answers, “Gaping spiders, Kodashi vipers, ssurians—”

“Seven systems in the Quelii sector.”

“Dathomir and Drackmar—”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“What?” Feral asks, caught off guard. “I—burra fish, but—”

“What are the grid coordinates for Dathomir?”

“O-6—”

“Pick a number between one and seven.”

Feral is going to _punch_ Wolffe. And maybe that’s not the best thanks for having gotten him away from Ventress, but he’s going to _deserve_ it. “Four.”

“How many Nightsisters are there?”

“I—I don’t know, hundreds—”

“How many Nightbrothers?”

“Three hundred? I think—”

“Describe your village.”

Feral hesitates. “Rocky, it’s at the edge between the swamp and the high plateau—”

“Savage’s favorite time of day?”

“I—noon? He likes to be lazy in the sunlight—”

“A number between one and ten.”

“Four.” Feral frowns, pushing at Wolffe’s hand again. “Wolffe, this is—”

“Which path should we take?”

“The _fourth_ , I just said that—”

Wolffe’s hand drops, and Feral glares at the smug expression he can just see through the helmet. “Fourth it is,” he says, and Feral _growls_.

“That was all just to get me to pick a random number?” he demands. “That doesn’t mean it’s _right_ —”

Wolffe snorts. “No, but it means you stopped thinking about it and just went with your instinct.” He pauses, and there’s a grimly amused edge to it when he says, “I've been told that a Force-user’s hunches carry a little more weight than most.”

Startled, Feral blinks at him, then sinks back the rest of the way against the stone, biting his lip. Before Wolffe’s barrage of ridiculous questions, he was…worried. Full of doubt. Nowhere close to having a clear mind, like when he meditated with Plo, or focused on one emotion, like when he’s using the Dark Side. Annoyed, yes, but—he was concentrating on the answers, not his emotions.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, and takes a breath. Still, he levels an aggravated look at Wolffe, and says, “You could have just _told_ me to calm down.”

There's a long pause, distracted, strangely tense. When Feral casts a glance at Wolffe’s face, though, Wolffe’s eyes are still on him from a handful of centimeters away, dark through the visor of his helmet. When Feral blinks at him, confused, Wolffe sucks in a sharp, sudden breath, then pulls away, letting go of Feral’s wrist and stepping back.

“It wouldn’t have worked,” he says, harsh, but there's an odd note to it too, a strange emotion underlying the words that Feral can't quite pick apart. “You would have just yelled at me.”

Feral flushes, looking away, and—he’s not actually scared of Wolffe the way he’s usually scared of Maul, so that’s honestly more likely an outcome than he wants to admit. “I definitely like Master Plo's way of teaching more,” he grumbles, which is an ineffective complaint but just about all he can muster up.

Wolffe snorts, turning around and heading for the center path. “Tough, you're stuck with mine for now. Let’s go.”

Feral takes a few quick steps to catch up, trying not to splash too much. Wolffe’s armor doesn’t exactly look waterproof, and they both already have wet feet. The rest of them doesn’t need to be wet, too. “I'm…not good with the Force,” he says carefully. “The Jedi might not even be in this canyon at all.”

Even that doesn’t seem to move Wolffe. “We only know what planet they're on,” he says. “If we’re going to have to search the whole thing, this is at least a place to start.”

There's still a thread of uncertainty knotted in Feral’s stomach, and he looks ahead of them. Down a shallow slope, the cliff walls narrow to a gap that Wolffe will likely have a hard time fitting through in full armor. The water is quick around their feet, but thankfully it’s barely ankle-deep and doesn’t seem to be getting deeper, and there aren’t any boulders blocking the path. There are strange ripples in the stone, and Feral reaches up to touch one, just a glancing slide of his fingers. It’s almost slick, and if they have to climb for any reason, it’s going to be almost entirely impossible.

“There must be thousands of smaller canyons, though,” he says, falling into step with Wolffe, then passing him to squeeze through the gap first. “And kilometers of rivers. A whole _army_ could be hiding in here and we would miss them—”

Sunlight.

Feral stops short, entirely caught off guard by the fact that he’s no longer in a narrow, tight channel, but standing at the edge of a wide river, knee-deep in cool water. This canyon runs almost perpendicular to the other, wide and relatively shallow, with cheerful rapids skipping down over blue-white stones and tumbling into a wider, slower stretch of water that’s almost unnervingly clear. Above it, red-brown dust howls, but the canyon is deep enough that the bottom is entirely untouched. It keeps flowing, clear and open, until Feral loses sight of it beneath a tangle of greenery.

“Then we’d better look carefully,” Wolffe says curtly, and shoves through the crack, armor scraping. He almost stumbles into Feral, who catches him quickly. Wolffe doesn’t look at him, though; his gaze is fixed upstream, and when Feral turns to follow his gaze, his breath catches.

Water burbles and hisses over a line of large boulders marred with scorches, pooling in a deep crater beneath them and spilling out over a lip of tangled battle droids, torn apart and left. A few meters closer, half-buried in the pale stones, is a helmet almost the same color, painted with deep red-brown lines.

“Kriff,” Wolffe says, and wades out into the deeper center of the river, up to his thighs. When he leans down to grab the helmet, it comes up easily, a wash of red silt like blood swirling away in the current, and something unsettled slides down Feral’s spine like ice. He glances up and down the river, but if there's any threat looming, he can't see it.

“Wolffe?” he asks carefully, and follows Wolffe out into the river with a grimace. It’s colder where it’s deep, and the stones are slick under his waterlogged boots.

Wolffe’s breath is harsh over the speakers. “Fil,” he says, tipping the water out of the helmet. “General Kolar's commander.”

And a friend, Feral thinks, watching him. There's no expression visible, but—the feel of him is all sharp, gutting grief. And—it’s a familiar emotion, to Wolffe. He’s felt it before, enough times that his response is practiced. Pack it up, shut it away, focus on something else as he turns, tucking it under his arm.

“If battle droids caught them here, they would have retreated,” he says curtly. “General Kolar's force isn't large, and General Swan wouldn’t have brought many troops down with her either. But it’s a place to start.”

A decent one, too. Feral steals another glance at the helmet, the dark edging so different from Wolffe’s careful paint done in grey, then turns away. “Downstream, probably,” he says. “It looks like a Jedi moved those boulders to block the way.”

Wolffe jerks his head in a sharp nod without answering, and Feral hesitates, flicking another wary glance at the helmet. Tries to think of something to say, but—

The roil of Wolffe’s anger and regret means there isn't anything he _can_ say. It’s the Separatists who did this. Feral might have stood up against his brothers, betrayed them to save Wolffe and Plo and the rest, but—it’s jarring to remember that he was a part of this. His hands aren’t clean.

“Come on,” Wolffe says, short, and passes Feral, helmet still tucked under his arm. He skirts back towards the edge of the canyon, though the water doesn’t get much shallower. The slope of the riverbed is a little unnerving, and Feral wants to take his time, feel it out, but he also doesn’t want to fall too far behind Wolffe, who seems entirely focused. With a faint grimace, Feral speeds up, trying to mind his step as he goes, and casts a look at the tangle of plants grown together ahead of them.

“If they made camp, it would be out of the water,” he says. “We should look for any dry riverbeds nearby.”

“Won't be that easy to find,” Wolffe says, not looking anywhere but ahead. “Kolar's team is meant to get behind enemy lines and hit hard, then disappear. He’ll have them hidden.”

Feral pauses, considering, and then looks up towards the top of the soaring canyon walls. The dust storm that’s still raging blots out the sunlight, for the most part, and casts shifting shadows across the river, and given what Wolffe said about the dust being toxic, it’s probably safe to assume that the troops aren’t camped up there, either.

“Transports hidden down here?” he suggests, and Wolffe grunts, skirting a dark spot in the riverbed.

“Maybe,” he says. “They're Jedi. Can you—”

Another step and he’s _gone_.

Feral has one half-second for confusion, another fractured instant for horror, and then he lunges. Dives, because he can see the sinking grey shape in the clear water, and it registers suddenly, starkly, that Wolffe is wearing forty kilograms of armor and regardless of skill he isn't going to be able to swim with that much weight, isn't going to be able to get himself to the surface again—

Another hard kick and Feral hits him, wraps his arms around Wolffe as he struggles, and _reaches_. A hard push off stone, a _pull_ against the canyon walls, and they're rising again, slow but steady, and Feral reaches blindly as they surface, grabs for stone and hauls, and they burst into air with a splash. Wolffe is still fighting, and Feral feels his panic like a kick, feels the source of it, and grabs the edge of Wolffe’s helmet. Pulls it up and off, water pouring out, and Wolffe’s gasp for breath is a wrench of relief. He grabs the helmet with one hand, the wall of the canyon with the other, and Feral gets a foot wedged into stone and turns to look downstream.

Fil’s helmet is floating. Floating _away_ , bobbing in the current, and Feral doesn’t need to see Wolffe’s expression to recognize the sharp shock of dismay, the wash of grief that’s even sharper than the initial emotion when he found it, for all that it’s quickly and ruthlessly throttled.

Silently, Feral stretches out a hand, adds a touch of will, and the helmet rises from the water, drifting back towards them.

Wolffe’s breath is harsh, almost angry, but he jams his own helmet back on and reaches out, catching Fil’s out of the air. “Should have let it go,” he says, and there's a thread of rage in it that’s almost familiar, anger channeled into a barrier between him and everything else. Savage used to feel like that, whenever the Nightsisters would come. “Carrying it will just slow us down.”

Feral bites his lip, but— “You said it has air filters,” he says, and he doesn’t _mean_ it. He’s not about to steal the helmet that belonged to Wolffe’s friend. But—it’s an excuse, and Savage always needed one, when he was angry. An excuse to cling, to stay close, or some allowance that feeling like he did was fine and not a burden. “If the storm gets worse, or the wind changes, we could need it.”

Wolffe is silent for a long moment, then grunts, inclining his head. He doesn’t mention the fact that with Feral’s horns, there's no possible way the helmet could fit him, and Feral doesn’t bring it up either. Just casts a glance down the river, trying to see how far the deep spot goes, and then says, “I think the current is strong enough that if I keep us afloat, it should get us down to the trees without us getting stuck somewhere.”

The grimace is obvious in Wolffe’s voice when he mutters, “Might as well carry a kriffing _rock_ along with you, the way you're holding me.”

“I think rocks are lighter,” Feral retorts, and doesn’t roll his eyes because he’s _nice_. Kind of. But— “If I just…hang onto the rocks, and pull, it’s not like jumping with the Force but I think I can keep us up.”

“Karking _bantha shit_ ,” Wolffe says, disgusted, but nods. “Do it.”

Feral chews on his lip for a second, trying to calculate how best to try. Not knowing how far it is until they reach a spot they can stand in makes it hard to tell how long he’ll need to keep them up, but at least to the trees ahead, likely. There's no stable spot to _actually_ jump from, even using the Force, not without hauling Wolffe back upstream several dozen meters, and then nowhere to land if he _does_ do that. So—forward seems best, even if it’s hard.

Taking a deep breath, Feral nods, wraps his arm a little more tightly around Wolffe’s chest. “Just—hang on to me,” he says. “And let go.”

“Kriff,” Wolffe mutters, and it’s easy to feel his tension, his wariness, but—

He pries his hand off the rock, sinking back entirely into Feral’s hold, and Feral closes his eyes, trying to concentrate. Breathes in, breathes out, and maybe it’s because of Wolffe’s badgering earlier, but he doesn’t reach for anger or fear. Instead, he lets his thoughts settle, lets his mind clear and his emotions steady, and focuses.

Just enough of a pull to keep them from sinking, but light enough to keep them floating. Feral picks a midway point between them and the trees and fixes his attention there, then wraps his other arm around Wolffe’s chest as well, frees his foot, and shoves them back out into the current with a hard push.

Wolffe sucks in a breath, jerks, but doesn’t fight, and Feral rolls over onto his back, takes the brunt of Wolffe’s weight to keep him mostly above the water, and kicks out, telling himself it’s just like swimming in one of the deeper sections of the swamp. The current is the only difference, and that’s helping, bobbing them down the river with a speed that’s a little unnerving.

The grip of Wolffe’s hands around his forearms is hard enough to make Feral wince, though, and he’s so tense he’s going to sink them for reasons other than his armor.

“You can relax,” Feral says, trying for reassuring. “I've got us.”

“Great,” Wolffe says harshly. “Because there’s so much swimming on Dathomir.”

Feral rolls his eyes, feels his feet scrape the bottom for an instant before the riverbed drops away again, and kicks out to carry them on farther. “There is,” he says, indignant. “I used to take the younger children to the clearer ponds in the swamp and show them how.” A ripple of waves washes over his face as they're swirled through an eddy, and he grimaces, resurfaces, shakes water out of his eyes. “Why don’t _you_ swim? Isn't Kamino an aquatic world?”

Wolffe makes a rude sound. “Swimming is for SCUBA troopers,” he says. “We wear _armor_.”

“Too much armor,” Feral huffs, feels rocks against his boots, and drags a foot along the riverbed for a moment before he trusts that it’s not about to disappear again. With a sound of relief, he straightens, easing them up, and it’s still chest-deep, but wading will be easier than floating.

“Finally,” Wolffe says sourly, catching his balance as he pulls away, and glances at the way the river ahead of them narrows, huge boulders rising from the water on either side, then becoming something like a path. The plants stretched across the canyon obscure everything on the other side, but at least it looks like they can walk a ways on dry land.

Wading over to the edge of the closest boulder, Feral digs his fingers into a crack, then hauls himself up, leaving the water with a splash. It takes more effort that he expects to get clear of the water, his clothes entirely waterlogged and _heavy_ , but he makes it to the top and then leans over the edge. “Want me to pull you up?”

Wolffe huffs. “Unless you have a ladder handy,” he says, sardonic.

Feral rolls his eyes, but focuses. Breathes out, reaches—

Wolffe lifts out of the water, and it’s _hard_ , because he’s heavier than most things Feral has moved like this, but Feral manages to get him up onto the boulder without dropping him, and that’s more than he honestly expected.

With a grunt, Wolffe hits the rock on his feet, staggers two steps, and then straightens, his armor pouring water. He pulls his helmet off, tipping more water out of it, and grimaces, shoving his sodden hair out of his eyes.

“If we have to swim _again_ , I’ll take my chances with Ventress,” he mutters.

Feral laughs, sinking down to sit and stretching his legs out. His robes are sticking to him, and it’s cold, but it could be colder. “I hope there are spare clothes in the ship,” he says.

“Don’t count on it.” Wolffe sets Fil’s helmet down, then takes a seat beside it, unbuckling his boots to empty the water out of them. “There are settlements on the planet, though, in between all the desert. We can find something eventually.”

A little guiltily, Feral thinks of Maul's bank accounts, carefully maintained as he builds his empire to rival Sidious. If they can find somewhere that issues credit chips, he can get them funds, since he has Maul's codes. He _shouldn’t_ , because Maul never deliberately gave them to him, but Feral has a good head for numbers and came across the codes while he was compiling information about the syndicates on one of Maul's datapads. There's no way Maul would _let_ him use the credits, but…

Well. Given the situation, he probably wouldn’t protest as much as he could.

“We need somewhere to resupply in general,” he says. “I can pay for it, but we should do it soon. If Master Kolar doesn’t know how to remove the mark, we’re going to have to find the Nightsister he knows, and that could be a long trip.”

“Nar Shaddaa isn't too far,” Wolffe says blandly, strapping his armor back on with a grimace. “Hutts will take Republic credits, even if most of the planets in their space won't.”

Maul has connections on Nar Shaddaa, criminals who owe him favors or allegiance. Maul's growing criminal empire is something he’s kept from Mother Talzin, covetous and careful, and Feral can use that. He breathes out, trying to remember comm codes, organizations, loyalties, and he’s been the one in charge of gathering most of the information, ferreting out secrets, so—it’s there. He just has to sit down and put it into order.

“All right,” he agrees, trying to calculate how best to get into contact with all of the people there when he doesn’t have any of his usual comm codes and can't verify his identity easily. There should be—

Instinct crashes headlong into awareness, and Feral surges to his feet, hand reaching. His lightsaber wrenches free of Wolffe’s belt, igniting even as it meets his palm, and Feral twists, bright scarlet blade flashing out in front of Wolffe to deflect a burst of red. With a snarl, Wolffe goes reeling back, and Feral steps fully in front of him, blocks three more shots as battle droids push through the greenery ahead of them, blasters raised.

Feral deflects another shot right into one of them, catches a flash of blue, and ducks to the side as Wolffe levels both of his pistols and fires. It’s enough cover for Feral to slide away, hit the edge of the boulders and leap, and he launches himself across the river, flips over and comes down lightly right in front of the droids, then flips his lightsaber around and tears right through them, cutting them down before they can do more than aim at him.

There's no time, though. A thump of metal feet on the other side of the river has him jerking around, and he jumps just as more droids push through the trees on the other side, lands on the stone and rises, blocking the way.

“Stop,” he says, putting all of the authority he can muster into his voice. “That’s an order.”

One of the battle droids falters, blaster dipping. “An order?” it says. “But we’re already following orders.”

“Hey,” a second says. “Why do you get to give us orders?”

“Yeah,” the third echoes. “You're not—”

Feral slices right through it, reverses and cuts through the other two, then leaps back as heavy steps approach. Wolffe slows as he nears, blasters still leveled at the trees, and asks sharply, “More?”

“Nearby, I think,” Feral confirms, though it’s just a hunch. He deactivates his lightsaber, but doesn’t let go of it, eyeing the veil of trees. They're tangled, strung with lichen to make a natural barrier, and he doesn’t like the lack of visibility. “We should keep going.”

Wolffe’s eyes are on him, heavy with an emotion Feral can't parse. When he glances over his shoulder, though, Wolffe is already looking away, and he holsters his blasters, inclining his head. Fil’s helmet is sitting back where they were, and Feral silently lifts it, calls it to him, and hands it back to Wolffe. The nod Wolffe gives him is curt, but there's relief in him as he tucks it under his arm, and Feral doesn’t comment.

“Don’t let any droids escape,” Wolffe says. “Or report. If the Seps know there's a Zabrak with a red lightsaber on Stoga, Ventress will probably know, too.”

Destroy them quickly. Feral can manage that. He breathes out, nods, and takes the lead as they push through the trees and into the next section of the river.


	25. Chapter 25

Feral is moving slower than he was.

Wolffe watches him carefully, trying not to be too obvious about it. There are no overt signs that something is wrong, and Feral hasn’t shown any symptoms of a headache, or even the subtle traces of confusion that happened last time when Ventress was close. Still, he’s slowed enough for Wolffe, following close behind him, to notice, and while it could be simple tiredness, Wolffe isn't willing to put that much faith in the universe giving them a break yet.

It’s particularly concerning because the walking is getting easier, not harder. The shifting, unsteady river rocks the size of Wolffe’s fist have given way to smooth gravel, and ahead of them is wet sand, half-circled by slender trees. This part of the river is wide and slow, and even if it curves sharply, it’s not nearly as treacherous as the parts they just crossed. Feral should be doing better here, not worse.

With a faint grimace, Wolffe shifts Fil’s helmet slightly, glancing up the river ahead of them, the winding switchbacks of it that make the walking take forever, even if it’s easier. He should ignore Feral, push him to move faster so they can get somewhere at least reasonably secure before the sun sets, but—

His fingers go tight on red-brown paint, and he breathes out harshly, takes three long steps, and grabs Feral’s elbow to pull him to a halt.

“Come on,” he says curtly. “Sit down. We need to eat.”

Feral blinks, like he’s startled by the order, then glances down the river. “But,” he starts, and then visibly stops himself, closing his mouth. Takes a moment, and then pulls a face and sinks down right where he’s standing, rubbing his hands over his face. “Good idea,” he says, muffled.

Now _that’s_ alarming. Wolffe raises a brow, crouching down beside him, but Feral still isn't looking up. He slumps over his knees, and he’s breathing—

He’s breathing like it hurts, and Wolffe thinks of the air filters in his helmet with a jolt that’s cold as ice and curses.

“Head up,” he orders, sharp enough that Feral does it automatically, chin rising before he apparently even thinks about it. His eyes flicker to Wolffe, but they’re a little red, irritated, and Wolffe wants to shake himself for his own stupidity. Setting Fil’s helmet down, he casts around desperately for some kind of solution, then realizes he’s quite literally been carrying it the whole time. Swearing at himself, he grabs for his belt, pulling the scarf Feral was wearing when he hit the comm tower out of one of the pouches. He’d been meaning to take it out, give it back, but—

Well. Better he didn’t, clearly.

Quickly, he wraps the dark fabric over the bottom of Feral’s face, up over the top of his head, then down around his throat. Memory of Feral’s panic almost makes him hesitate there, but he keeps going, tries to keep his touch gentle as he loops the ends around Feral’s neck and tucks them into his tunic.

“Should have remembered I had that,” he says, biting, but all the edges are turned on himself. Everything that’s happened has thrown him off. It’s usually Sinker who runs equipment checks, and between clone armor with its filters and Plo with his rebreather he isn't used to ever having to worry about less than friendly atmospheres, but that’s not an excuse.

“Oh,” Feral says, startled, and reaches up. He tugs the fabric a little higher over his nose, then flips the hood of his robe up, shading his eyes in the deep drape. They glow a little, that unnerving gold that almost gave Wolffe a heart attack last night, but he forces himself to stay where he is, watching as Feral adjusts cloth and tucks the scarf in a little more. It’s strange to see him completely anonymous again, like the dark figure in the comm tower, and there's still a knee-jerk fear reaction to him dressed like this, but—

Plo gave him Jedi robes, rather than the draping Sith tunics he was in before, and even beyond that, Wolffe knows him by now. He can see the dip where Feral’s broken horn is, knows how the dark brown curve beneath his eyes breaks into a sweep across his cheekbone.

It just takes a second of looking to see the differences.

“Thank you,” Feral says, and pushes his hood back a little, just enough for Wolffe to see the smallest of his horns. “I—I didn’t think there was that much dust down here.”

“Fine particles,” Wolffe says. “During storm season everyone’s supposed to be wearing a rebreather, or a helmet with a filter.” He hadn’t seen anything similar on the ship, not that he’d been looking hard, but—settlements will have rebreathers if they head that way, and they likely should.

Feral nods, and Wolffe can just make out his wry expression in the crinkles around his eyes. “It’s better already,” he says. “Sorry to slow us down so much.”

“I meant it about us needing to eat,” Wolffe says, and sinks down in the sand next to him, finding the spare ration packs he keeps in his utility belt and pulling them out. He’s only carrying enough for one more meal, but this should be enough to keep them going for a few more hours at least. “Here. Try not to lift that cloth too much.”

Feral takes it, but instead of unwrapping it, he lowers it, rests it in his lap for a moment. His eyes flicker to the water, then up towards the tops of the cliffs, and he asks quietly, “Do you think Master Plo is all right?”

“Yes,” Wolffe says, and stubbornly refuses to believe anything else at all. He pulls off his helmet, tearing into his ration bar quickly, and says, “Ventress went out of her way not to fight him one on one. He’ll be fine.”

Plo is one of the best swordsmen in the Order. He regularly beats Mace Windu, who’s the Order’s champion, and from how he tells it, only Agen Kolar—one of the best swordsmen in the entire history of the galaxy—is reliably able to defeat him. When they left, he was hurt but still standing, and Wolffe is absolutely sure that if Ventress _did_ go after him again, he survived it. Wolffe’s seen him create tornadoes, freeze the air, melt _stone_. He can defeat Ventress, particularly if there's no one else around that he has to worry about protecting.

For a long moment Feral watches him. Then, soft, he lets out a breath, and like he can feel Wolffe’s certainty he lets himself relax just a little. “Good,” he says, and it wavers, then firms. “I know other people have beaten her, but—sometimes it’s hard to imagine.”

Wolffe thinks of Feral back on the cruiser, the way he’d said _the Nightsisters always win. There's no way to stop them_ , like it was some great truth of the universe. “You helped,” he says. “This time. Stopping her was on you, too. She didn’t win.”

Feral is silent for a second as he unwraps his ration bar, then slides a few pieces under the tight wrap of the scarf. “I guess I didn’t think of it like that,” he says finally. “But she didn’t get me, and she didn’t take Savage again, and she didn’t get Maul, either.”

“And you know something.” When Feral glances up, surprised, Wolffe meets his gaze. “Something that’s apparently going to kark up Mother Talzin’s day enough that she sent a Nightsister to get you back before you could tell anyone.”

“Just on the _chance_ that I might remember,” Feral agrees, quiet. It’s not _soft_ , though; Wolffe can tell that just looking at him. There's an edge to the words, broken glass, but—

Broken glass can be a knife, in the right hands.

“Maybe,” Feral says, looking back down at the wrapper in his hands, “if we can get the mark off, I’ll remember what I did when—when they had me.”

Call Wolffe a pessimist, but he can see a hell of a lot of downsides to that idea, just going by how reluctant Feral is to kill normally, and how he’s killed at least one—probably at least four, if he’s really responsible for the murders of all the anti-war voices that have happened recently—already under the Nightsisters’ control. If he gets his memories back, he’s going to have to live with those ones, too.

“Maybe General Kolar can help with that, even if he doesn’t know how to get that brand off,” he says. “You saw something when you were killing the senator, most likely. He might be able to get to the memory.”

“It had to have been on Sekind,” Feral says, glancing up, and like that moment when Wolffe had him pinned against the canyon wall, it’s hard to look away from his eyes, the shape of his face, even when it’s wrapped in dark cloth. “I didn’t get Mother Talzin’s order to sabotage the comm tower until after I landed, and—it must have been because she was hoping Plo would kill me.”

Wolffe pauses, weighing that, but— “It wasn’t supposed to be Plo,” he says, and there's a harsh edge to it, but he doesn’t want to think about the comm tower and all the things that could have gone wrong. If Feral was just a little more willing to kill to keep his own skin intact, or if he were even a little less careful, Sinker and Ringer at the very least would be dead. Probably Wolffe, too, given how their fight outside the tower went. “The 104th got pulled in last minute when the Jedi Council got word that there was going to be an attack on the comm array. We were headed for the Ferra Sector originally.”

Feral’s hands twist into the hem of his tunic, fisting there. “But—how could Mother Talzin get a whole _battalion_ redirected just to kill me?” he asks, helpless. “The Nightsisters are powerful, but they're only on Dathomir. And—even if she passed on information to the Republic, it would have to be something people _believed_.”

It smells rotten to Wolffe, and he grimaces, squeezing a little more water out of the padding of his helmet and then pulling it on. “There aren’t a lot of people in the Senate who would just be believed about that, either,” he says grimly. “If she knows about a spy, they have to be high up in the food chain.”

“Maybe I saw them,” Feral says quietly. “During the assassination, or when I was reporting to Mother Talzin. If she was—was selling my services, and the client wanted proof, and something went wrong…”

Something like Feral starting to wake up, at least enough to see who he was working for. “The general will help,” Wolffe says, and believes it. Kolar's always gone out of his way to keep the clones that serve with him alive, and he’s kind, soft-spoken for all he’s blunt. “Kolar can get into your head and see what happened.”

Feral makes a sound of amusement, watching as Wolffe rises. When Wolffe offers him a hand, he takes it, and as Wolffe pulls him to his feet, he says, “That was what I was terrified of, when you caught me.”

Wolffe frowns, surprised. “General Kolar?” he asks, raising a brow.

Feral shakes his head, and his fingers tighten over Wolffe’s arm, the spot where his discarded vambrace should be. “A Jedi in my head. Or—a Jedi taking over my mind and peeling out all my memories. Like the Nightsisters did to Savage.”

Those words sit heavy in the pit of Wolffe’s stomach, and he remembers the way Feral reacted to Plo at first, how scared he seemed even when Wolffe hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that a Sith _could_ be afraid. _Like Savage_ isn't a comparison Wolffe would have thought could ever make him even mildly sympathetic, and yet—

“It won't be like that,” he says brusquely. “You won't forget.”

Wolffe can't see the details of Feral’s face, but he can feel the way Feral’s grip tightens, almost desperate. “What if they _did_ something to me, though?” he says. “I don’t—if I saw something, I don’t _know_ it, and I can't—”

Kriff. Wolffe can _feel_ the tremor that runs through him, doesn’t need to be a Jedi to feel the wash of despair that’s rising. There's no coherent thought, no plan, but he takes a step forward, grip tightening on Feral’s wrist. Pulls him forward—

Feral blinks, and turns, and takes one neat step to the side. “Do you hear that?” he asks.

Wolffe catches himself, entirely caught off guard. “What?” he demands, and it’s almost a bark as he turns, aggravated for some reason he can't even begin to name. Feral isn't even looking at him, though; his eyes are on the curve of the river they passed a few minutes ago, and he takes a step towards it—

With a deep, bone-rattling rumble, a wall of water half as high as the blasted canyon crashes around the bend, and all of Wolffe’s breath deserts him at once.

Instantly, Feral spins, grabs Wolffe’s hand. “Run!” he says, and Wolffe has no idea how they're supposed to outpace a giant kriffing _flood_ , but—

They run.

“Are you sure this is the right port?” Fox asks, faintly suspicious as he makes his way down the ramp.

Padmé hitches Maul up a little higher against her shoulder, trying to steady him as his legs give another sparking jolt, and then glances around, looking for the marker. It matches the number the automated landing system gave her, and she frowns. “Yes. Is something wrong?”

Fox glances around the quiet landing strip, and Padmé watches the way his eyes skim the water, flicker down the long avenue that connects them to the main island. “No people. This time of day, the port should be full.”

Scarif is a quiet world in general, so Padmé hadn’t thought anything of the lack of residents, but…Fox has a point. There are other ships here, settled into berths all along the avenue, and the trees block some of the visibility, but she can't hear any voices. There are no engines, either, no sounds of crews preparing for takeoff or disembarking.

The arm over her shoulder goes tight, fingers digging hard into her bicep, and Maul stumbles, one of his legs almost giving way. “ _Greed_ ,” he says, and Padmé has to duck to keep one of his long horns from scraping her cheek. “Everything, all the things, he wants them and they're _his_ —”

Padmé meets Fox’s eyes, sees the grim acceptance of things about to go wrong on his face, and grimaces. “Maul?” she asks, as gently as she can, and pulls him up a little higher. “Who is _he_?”

Maul groans, head dipping as he stumbles again. Fox catches him before he can drag Padmé off her feet, and though he grimaces a little, he pulls Maul's other arm over his shoulders, helping to hold him up. “The _voices_ ,” Maul hisses. “I didn’t _fail_ , it wasn’t my _fault_.”

Padmé hesitates, not sure how much weight to put behind anything Maul says. She’s well-aware of what the Force can do, and all the things Anakin just _knew_ without being told, but Maul is hardly the steadiest person right now.

“You didn’t fail,” she says soothingly, and pulls him forward a few steps, to the bottom of the ramp. Carefully, with Fox’s help, she lowers Maul down so he can sit, then crouches in front of him. When she reaches out, he twitches away from her hand, but Padmé doesn’t hesitate. She cups his cheek, trying to pull his head up enough to meet his eyes, and—

Maul leans into the touch of her hand, a low, pained sound breaking from his throat, and Padmé has no idea how to react to that.

“Maul,” she says, rather than dwelling on it, and carefully tips his face up. “Maul, look at me.”

Instantly, with unnerving intensity, Maul's gaze flickers right up to meet hers. “Not Hypori,” he says, ragged but low. “We can't go to Hypori.”

Padmé blinks, not entirely sure how that came up, but—maybe she was thinking it too loudly earlier. “All right,” she says. “We won't go to Hypori. But we’re on Scarif right now. There might be people here who can help you, but—can you tell if we’re in danger?”

Maul laughs, half-mad and _furious_ , so angry that it vibrates over Padmé’s bones. “We’re _all_ in danger,” he says, and one long-fingered hand locks around Padmé’s wrist, bruisingly tight. “He has so many plans. Plans for me, and plans for you, and we can't _escape_ them, little queen.”

The back of Padmé’s neck prickles, and Fox takes a step, reaching out like he’s going to haul her bodily away from Maul's touch. Padmé raises a hand to stop him, though, and tries to remember what she knows about Zabraks. One of her tutors on Naboo was from Iridonia, a Human who had been raised in a Zabrak family, but her memories of the woman are spotty, from her early days before her campaign for queen. Still, she at least remembers a _little_ , and it’s enough to make her slide her hand up, careful, and gently trace her fingers around the base of one of Maul's craggy, twisted horns. Not healthy-looking, from what she remembers, but then, not much about him seems entirely well at the moment.

“Maul,” she says, holding his gaze. “I need the name of the Sith Lord. Can you tell me?”

Maul's unnerving yellow eyes flicker, and he leans into her hand like a tooka, expression twisting. “Don’t _touch_ me,” he says, and it rumbles like a growl, but he’s the one pressing into her touch. “I don’t _need_ you, I can retrieve them on my _own_. I won't fail.”

“Padmé,” Fox says, quiet and warning.

“It’s all right,” Padmé says determinedly. “He’s not going to hurt me. Maul, I made you a deal, and it still stands. I _will_ help you save your brothers, but you have to give me something in return. That’s fair, isn't it?”

“ _Fair_ ,” Maul says, mocking, and his laugh is low and velvety, but full of derision as his eyes meet hers again. “You Jedi, always pretending to be _fair_.”

“I'm not a Jedi,” Padmé reminds him, running her fingers up the pitted surface of one horn. It makes Maul shiver, eyes falling shut as he breathes, and Padmé doesn’t waver. “Maul, are we in danger on Scarif?”

“Yes,” Maul grits out, like it’s an effort, and his legs spark, twitching. “Yes, danger, there's danger—”

“Here,” Padmé presses. “Maul, is there danger to us _here_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Maul snarls, sharp and unexpectedly loud. It makes Padmé jerk back, automatically reaching for the blaster strapped to her thigh, but Maul doesn’t try to grab her. He just slumps forward, fingers tangling in his own horns. “It was all a _lie_ ,” he says, pitched into a lament that makes something wary and alarmed twist down Padmé’s spine. “Centuries, _centuries_ in the shadows and there were only supposed to be two. But now there are four, because he _discarded_ me. One failed test and I was _betrayed_.”

Four, Padmé thinks, breathing out. Maul, Savage, and Dooku, and then—one more left to identify. The most dangerous one, without a doubt.

“Maul,” she says, and he doesn’t look up, but he doesn’t say anything, which likely means he’s listening. “Maul, I want to help you. How do I help you remember yourself? The Nightsisters—whatever they did to you, can it be redone?”

“A ritual,” Maul says. “The Nightsisters come to their knowledge through a thousand years of Darkness. The fallen found them, and the Sith, Sith from the line of Darth Andeddu, Immortal God-King of Prakith—” His voice breaks into mutters, sinking away, and Padmé sinks back on her heels, trying to breathe.

“Immortal God-King,” Fox says after a long moment, voice perfectly bland. “That sounds promising.”

Padmé hesitates, then rises to her feet, casting him a wry smile. “I assume,” she says, as evenly as possible, “that _fallen_ means fallen Jedi, which isn't likely to help us. But…the Sith Empire is gone, but there are still ruins of it. Maybe there's something there that can help him.”

Fox eyes her, then Maul. “We’re going to drag the crazy Sith to the home of someone who called himself the _Immortal God-King_ and hope he coughs up some answers?” he asks, but that tone isn't precisely an objection. When Padmé raises a brow at him in silent challenge, he snorts, and says, “It’s not Hypori. But Prakith is Deep Core, so you’d better be sure about going there.”

“It’s also mostly occupied by the Mining Guild,” Padmé says, weighing the choice. The Mining Guild hasn’t made any overt declarations that align it with the rest of the commerce guilds that have thrown their support behind the Separatists, but there have been rumors. And they certainly operate on more than a few Separatist worlds even now, without any apparent trouble.

They need medical help. Fox’s broken arm needs to be seen to, and Maul's legs need to be repaired, and Scarif is the best place to do that. But afterwards…

“The Jedi likely have more information on Darth Andeddu,” she says.

Fox raises a brow at her. “The Jedi don’t tend to give up information that could be dangerous to anyone who’s asking,” he points out. “Even Senators and Guard commanders. And we’re trying to keep a low profile.”

Padmé gives him a charming smile. “Then it’s a good thing the request isn't going to come from either of us,” she says. “It will come from Anakin.”

Fox pauses, startled. “You have his codes?”

“I was his wife,” Padmé says, and refuses to allow it to be bitter. She _did_ love Anakin. She loved him to the point that it made her into someone she despises. “I know all of his codes, and how infrequently he washes his underwear, too.”

Fox barks out a laugh, surprised into it, but it makes something in Padmé’s chest twist in a way that isn't unpleasant to see it. “One’s more useful than the other,” he says, grinning, and there are _teeth_ in it. “All right. We get the Sith to a medical center and—”

Something rustles in the trees and bushes around the landing pad.

Instantly, Fox jerks around, hand going to his hip like he’s reaching for a blaster, but there isn't one. There isn't anything except Padmé’s vibroblade, hidden in his boot, and Padmé doesn’t hesitate. She takes three long steps and puts herself right in front of him, because she’s more valuable and anyone who wants to shoot him will have to shoot through her to do it.

“Come out,” she says, pitched to carry, and makes it an order. “Now. Where we can see you.”

“Padmé—” Fox starts, but before he can try to move her there's another rustle, and a green-brown hat rises above the top of a bush. There’s a laugh, appreciative but sly, and a moment later a figure Padmé has seen in wanted posters more times than she can count pushes through the greenery, spreading his arms as his long red coat flares around him. Behind him come a whole group of armed men and women, blasters raised and aimed.

“A senator!” he says gleefully. “On our little world, how unexpected!”

Well, Padmé thinks, meeting his gaze. This would explain why the port is deserted.

“Captain Ohnaka,” she says, and doesn’t move as Hondo swaggers across the pad, a monkey-lizard hanging from his shoulder and watching her with greedy eyes. “I wasn’t aware Scarif had elected you its leader.”

Hondo chuckles, making to circle her, but before he can Padmé takes a step to the side, blocking him from moving, and he pauses. “ _Elected_ is a very strong word, Senator,” he says grandly. “But I am currently in charge of this beautiful outpost. And to think, we get such prestigious visitors! I would have had my men prepare if I had known you were coming.”

“We simply want to use the medical facilities,” Padmé says, letting her hands fall to her sides. “I’ll pay you for the time, if you would like.”

Hondo hums, tapping his chin as he considers, though there's nothing but amusement in his eyes. “Pay me? That would be quite generous of you, Senator, but tell me. would it be as much as the Republic would pay to get you back?”

Fox makes a sharp sound, stepping forward, but before he can do anything ten blasters are aimed right at him, and Padmé raises a hand, halting him. Hondo chuckles, moving forward until he’s right in front of her, looming pointedly, and looks down to meet Padmé’s eyes.

“Tell me, Senator,” he says amiably. “Why should I take a small cut of what I _could_ make off of you, hm?”

Padmé gives him a smile, leaning forward, and watches Hondo’s eyes slide over her face. He doesn’t protest as she takes another step, until they're only centimeters apart.

“Because,” Padmé says, “you seem to think this negotiation is about _my_ safety, Captain Ohnaka. But it’s actually about yours.” She shoves her blaster into his stomach, and as he yelps and starts to recoil, she follows, holding it steady until he freezes.

“Now,” Padmé says, and her heart is racing, but—her hands aren’t shaking, and that’s a start. “Shall we try this again, Captain?”


	26. Chapter 26

“Well, so far so good,” Sinker says as the ship settles with a faint tremor. He reaches out, double-checking a few of the readings, and frowns a little. “I have to say, though, that was the laziest security check I’ve ever been through.”

“Sloppy,” Savage says, derisive, but he’s not moving, so Sinker assumes he wasn’t too offended by the whole thing.

“Almost like they want to let all the bounty hunters and brigands through,” Sinker says a little dryly. Some of the hyperdrive readings are a little off, but they're within normal limits, so he shuts the ship down and then sits back, looking up at Savage. Way up; Savage is looming right over him, and from this angle, he’s obscenely tall. Over two meters, Sinker thinks, eyeing him. That shouldn’t be allowed.

“Sloppy but useful,” Savage allows, and glances out the viewscreen, over the dark lines of the spaceport. Just beyond the landing pads, the hills start, disappearing into the night, but Sinker can see the lights of the closest city starting halfway up, built into the slope. That’s where Savage’s eyes are fixed, and the expression on his face isn't quite disgust, but it’s something grim. “The people here are…dark.”

He doesn’t say it like an indictment, and Sinker supposes that for him it isn't. “Not exactly a happy place to end up,” he says, noncommittal.

Savage grunts, then straightens to his full height, horns almost brushing the ceiling. “We will find help. My brother has allies among the syndicates.”

Not many better worlds for a syndicate to set up on, Sinker thinks ruefully. The Mandalore system as a whole is neutral, and Concordia as a colony is distant enough to be all but lawless, for all the governor has nominal control of it. “I’ll start resetting things while you’re out,” he says. “The system here didn’t require codes, so I think I can get away with it even while we’re still in port.”

There's a long, long moment of silence, heavy, almost hostile. A little startled, Sinker glances up to find Savage staring at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion and anger clear on his face. “No,” he says curtly. “You come as well.”

Sinker blinks, then sinks back in his chair. Arguing with the massive Sith with anger issues doesn’t seem like the best idea, but at the same time, Sinker can't help the incredulous sound that breaks from his throat. “I get that you don’t want to trust me,” he says, as evenly as possible, “but I'm a clone. I'm a clone of _Jango Fett_ , the last Mand’alor, who never actually stepped down, and this planet is full of people who blame him for disappearing and letting the True Mandalorians fall apart. Even just looking at my armor tells people exactly what I am.”

Surprise flickers over Savage’s face, and he frowns faintly, taking a half-step back. “Mand’alor? Not a duke?”

Sinker shakes his head. “Titles like that all come from Kalevala, another planet in the system,” he says. “Mand’alor is the leader of the warrior clans.” He pauses, then says, “You can lock me in one of the storage rooms, if you don’t trust me.”

Something crosses Savage’s face, twists his expression. “No,” he says roughly. “You're coming.”

In any other situation, Sinker might make a joke. Savage isn't even that great with touch, though, and sex jokes might be a step too far, so he keeps his mouth shut. Considers a response for a long moment, and then says, “I’ll just draw more attention to us.”

“Then take off your armor,” Savage orders.

Sinker’s all for him giving orders, since he seems more comfortable when he can be in charge, but this one—this isn't one it’s reasonable to follow. “Savage—”

A huge hand closes around his shoulder, levering him to his feet, and Sinker spends about three seconds considering fighting before he’s shoved into the narrow bunkroom. He stumbles, catches his balance and turns, ready for the door to be slammed in his face and locked—

Instead, Savage steps in after him, his bulk taking up the space of two normal people, and says, “Take it off.”

This, Sinker thinks with some despair, is going to be _torture_. He’s going to have to swallow all of his jokes, be _polite_ , and it might actually kill him well before Savage does. “I don’t have any other clothes,” he says with all the dignity he can manage. “And running around in my blacks doesn’t seem like the best idea unless you want to pretend I'm a stripper you’ve hired.”

Savage stops short, hand halfway outstretched. “Stripper,” he repeats, like he’s baffled by this, and it takes all of Sinker’s willpower not to say something that would _definitely_ be taken the wrong way.

“It’s skintight,” he offers instead. “Noticeable. Especially when the cultural standard is _armor_.”

“I wouldn’t hire a _stripper_ ,” Savage finally says, and he looks like he doesn’t know whether of be offended or confused. It’s a look that Feral wore more than once, talking to Wolffe, and Sinker has to hide a grin.

“It’s honest work,” he points out, not quite able to strangle his amusement. “Decent credits in it if you know what you’re doing, and it takes a lot of muscles and training.”

Savage grimaces. “I would never pay someone to—” he starts, then gives it up with a grunt and simply says, “Remove your undersuit as well. There are clothes in the closet.”

Well. That puts a different spin on the order to strip. “There’ll need to be a mask in there, too,” Sinker warns, but he starts unbuckling his armor with the speed of familiarity, pulling it off and stacking it on one of the bunks. When he gets down to the undersuit, he pauses, but then snorts at himself and starts stripping that off, too. It’s probably sad that he can count the number of times he’s taken the undersuit off for something besides a shower on one hand and still have fingers left over, and it _feels_ wrong, but—well. One more thing to adjust to.

“We’d better hope that whoever the Sekind authorities nabbed here was at least Human-shaped, too,” Sinker jokes, stepping out of the clinging black and folding it neatly. His skin prickles, and he’s too aware of Savage watching him, gets one sharp flicker of almost gutting vulnerability and then promptly squashes it as best he can. Landing on Concordia was his idea. He can deal with it.

“They were,” Savage says curtly, and offers Sinker dark grey cloth, then brown. When Sinker holds them up, trying to judge what he’ll need to modify, they're surprisingly close to his size, and he shrugs and hauls the pants on, then the brown shirt. It’s a little tight across the chest, but the next thing Savage hands him is a length of dark cloth, the black faded to deep grey, and Sinker wraps the short cloak around his shoulders, then tests his range of motion with it on. Not terrible, and it won't hide his blaster rifle, but the hood should be a good start when it comes to hiding his face, and that’s enough.

“A Human of the right size, even,” Sinker says, and steps past Savage to see what else is in the closet. There are a few belts, a single glove on the bottom shelf, and he takes them with a touch of amusement, entirely willing to go all-out when he’s dressing himself for the first time. “I've never worn this stuff before. It’s more comfortable than I expected.”

There's a pause, careful and almost wary. “Clothes?” Savage finally asks, and his frown is obvious.

A moment of digging even manages to produce a worn and battered pair of boots, clearly well-used but close enough to the right size, and Sinker shoves his feet into them and laces them up his calves. “Not much of a call for clone troopers to ever be out of armor,” he says. “And when we are, we’re just in our blacks. Technically we’ve got dress greys, but I've never used them. Not much call in the Wolfpack.”

Savage huffs, but he’s still watching, and when Sinker glances up, there's something unreadable on his face. “Hide your face,” is all he says, and when Sinker raises a brow at him, he turns away. “And bring your blaster.”

That, at least, won't raise any brows here; enough DC-15s have been scavenged or stolen that they're plentiful all over the galaxy at this point, and cheap. Sinker having something different would probably help him pass unnoticed, but his should be fine as long as he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself. Agreeably, Sinker pulls the hood up, tugging the neckline of the cloak down where it loops across his chest so that it covers a little more.

“Is there someone in particular you're looking for?” he asks, because the two of them just wandering around the closest city seems a little like an invitation for trouble.

Savage shifts aside, though he’s big enough that Sinker still has to squeeze past him to get back out into the main part of the ship. “The Pyke Syndicate,” he says.

Hand halfway to his blaster, Sinker freezes. He knows that name. It’s kind of hard _not_ to. “The _Pyke_ Syndicate,” he repeats, a little incredulous. “The gang in control of the spice cartel? The group connected to every wealthy crime family on Coruscant? _That’s_ who you want to go to for help?”

With a grunt, Savage folds his arms over his chest, clearly displeased to be questioned. “My brother has been seeking an alliance with them,” he says.

“Seeking, not _has_ ,” Sinker clarifies, and when Savage gives him a narrow look, he grimaces and picks his blaster up, shouldering it, and then ducks back into the bunkroom to get his vibroblades.

“They will be here,” Savage says, unwavering.

“A spice cartel? On Concordia? Of course they will.” Sinker pulls a face, sliding a blade into his boot, then tucking another through his belt. “The odds that they won't sell us out to Ventress or the Nightsisters isn't exactly as high as I’d like, though.”

There's a moment of silence, then a rough breath. “They're widespread,” Savage finally says, turning away, and he picks up his own cloak, drapes it around his shoulders and pulls the hood up. “If Maul needs to contact someone, he should contact them.”

That doesn’t precisely make it better, but Sinker can understand the reasoning. He still pulls a face, shifting the strap of his blaster, and says, “You're right, but I still don’t like it. If they betray us, there's not going to be any places we can go here on Concordia.”

Savage doesn’t answer right away, and when Sinker glances at him, he’s staring again, eyes faintly narrowed, expression twisted in a way Sinker can't read. He’s never wanted a Jedi’s empathy as much as he does right now, honestly. Still, when he raises a brow, questioning, Savage huffs and looks away, starting towards the ship’s ramp.

“I could have picked Crimson Dawn,” he says without looking back, and Sinker makes a sound of deep, immediate disgust, following him.

“With the guy who turns people into cybernetic slaves? No thanks,” he mutters. “I know your brother’s a Sith, but aren’t Sith supposed to be all about freedom?”

“Personal freedom,” Savage says, grim. “Chaos and destruction. No one else matters, just your freedom.”

A little startled, Sinker glances over at him, then pauses at the top of the ramp to rig the ship to reset its codes. It will take a few hours, but hopefully they won't need to make a quick getaway until later. “Sounds like you ran face-first into that one,” he says, careful.

Savage is nothing but a huge shadow in the gloom, wrapped completely in his cloak. With his horns covered, with his face hidden, he’s massive and looming, unnerving even when Sinker knows what he actually looks like.

“Dooku,” he says, after a long, long moment. “Dooku taught me. Many lessons.”

None of them easy, Sinker’s betting. He hesitates for a moment, but—even though Savage doesn’t seem as raw, as volatile as he did earlier, he still reaches out, curls a hand over Savage’s forearm. “I’m guessing,” he says quietly, “that that was another thing you didn’t have a choice in.”

Savage stiffens, but he doesn’t shake Sinker off, and Sinker remembers the way he acted before, the grip of his hand when Sinker touched him. He slides his fingers down, touches Savage’s knuckles, slips down to press fingertips to his palm, and Savage’s fingers close convulsively over his, an almost involuntary motion. He’s strung tight, tense as a rappel-line with a Hutt on the end, but he doesn’t pull away.

“No,” Savage says finally, rasping rough. “Ventress wanted—revenge. For Dooku discarding her and trying to kill her. Mother Talzin helped her get it.”

And Savage ended up collateral. _Feral_ ended up collateral, if Sinker is putting the pieces together right. Feral died, or something close to it, and Savage was sent to train as Dooku’s apprentice, like a sleeper agent, and then—

Well. Maul saved him, or something along those lines, Sinker is guessing. Savage got away somehow, but clearly whatever happened was enough to leave him…fragile. It seems like a ridiculous word to use in relation to a Sith who’s over two meters tall and has killed multiple Jedi, but—not _wrong_ , Sinker thinks.

“Did she get it?” he asks quietly, and Savage growls, low and rumbling in his chest in a way that a Human could never replicate.

“No,” he says, all vicious satisfaction, and turns his head to meet Sinker’s eyes. “I almost killed her.”

“Good,” Sinker says, and means it wholeheartedly. Revenge is one thing. He can understand that. Using someone uninvolved, an innocent person who’s already been given a bantha shit hand in life, to get it, though? Sinker’s less of a fan of that.

Savage’s hand twitches, going tighter around Sinker’s for a moment before he pulls away, putting space between them. His breath sounds rough for a moment, and he turns his face away, then asks shortly, “Done?”

Sinker double-checks that the reset is ready, commits the new code to memory, and nods. “It’ll take a while,” he says, and follows Savage the rest of the way down the ramp, letting it close behind them. “When we end up getting shot at, we’ll have to hole up somewhere else for a bit and let it finish.”

“When,” Savage repeats, sounding bemused.

Sinker shrugs. “You saying we _won't_ end up getting shot at, given the way this day is going?” he asks dryly.

Savage snorts softly, leading the way down a wide path of packed earth towards a bank of lights. Instead of answering, though, he says, “You think the people here will blame you for your template’s desertion.”

Sinker shrugs, keeping half a wary eye on the other ships they pass. There's quite a variety, from ships that wouldn’t be out of place in the Senate port to complete junkers that probably have one wing in the scrapyard. “Wouldn’t be the first time. A couple of us have gotten picked off by bounty hunters who want Jango's head on their wall, or who want to claim they killed him. And Jango _did_ desert them. He and the main force had a job on Galidraan, and right afterwards he vanished completely. Without an organized resistance, Death Watch was the main power, and they slaughtered a bunch of the remaining True Mandalorians, right up until the New Mandalorians took over.”

Savage’s huff is low and disgusted. “He _left_? Fett abandoned them?”

“Probably,” Sinker says, rising his eyes towards the lights crowning the hill. The city stretches over it, dips down into the next valley and then climbs the other side of it, and—that’s probably a lot of people. It’s a lot of people to hide from, particularly when they're all trained Mandalorians. “He dropped off the map for a few years, then turned up as a bounty hunter. No idea what happened in the meantime.”

There's a pause, and Sinker can feel Savage’s eyes on him. “He never told you?” he asks after a moment, suspicious.

Kriff. Sinker struggles with about ten cutting things he wants to say, all of them aimed right at the Original, and finally manages a crooked smile for Savage. “Wasn’t like he saw us as anything but meatsack droids. We weren’t the type he’d tell anything to. Might have told Boba, but—Boba didn’t interact with us, either.”

“Boba,” Savage echoes, frowning. “Who is that?”

“Boba Fett. An unaltered clone,” Sinker says. “No quick aging, no conditioning. He was Jango's son. No idea what happened to him after General Windu killed Jango, though.” He wonders, sometimes, because Boba wasn’t quite the asshole Jango was, but—not like there's any way to find him. Not like Sinker would have any idea what to say if he _could_. Jango was a bastard, didn’t even see them as sentient. Sinker’s got no idea what it was like for Boba growing up, but—that kind of thing has to fuck up someone’s head at least a little.

Savage grunts, inclining his head. His eyes glow under the shadow of his hood, eerie gold, and he stares ahead of them for a moment, then says, “There's a lift.”

“Figured there must be,” Sinker says. “Long way from the port to the city if there’s not, but I guess they couldn’t build right in the hills.”

Savage doesn’t answer, and Sinker lets the silence lie as they walk. It’s a fair distance, and he’s happy to keep an eye on their rear anyway, watching the shift of figures in the pools of light around the other ships. There are plenty of people, a mixed bag of species, but all of them look fairly rough, and Sinker isn't about to trust his back to them without reason.

The lift itself is fairly crowded, only two cars and a freight trailer, but Savage simply stalks through the waiting groups and they part without vocal objection, though he gets some nasty looks aimed at him. Sinker keeps to his shadow, hand close to his vibroblade, and settles back against the rear wall as Savage looms in the corner beside him. When Sinker glances at him, he’s tense again, jaw clenched, and it’s automatic to reach out, to slide his fingers around Savage’s wrist and grip lightly.

Those yellow eyes slide to him, then away, but Savage lets out a slow breath, and that’s good enough.

“The Pykes will probably have their own section of the city,” Sinker says, low, and usually in a situation like this, he’d use Mando’a, at least with another clone. Not a hell of a lot of people speak it, but the trainers on Kamino thought it would give them an advantage, so learning it was standard. This is about the one place where everyone speaks it, though, so even if Savage happens to know it—already highly unlikely—it’s useless to default to it. “A couple of streets or a neighborhood where they set up, usually.”

Savage glances out the window as the lift slides forward, rattling faintly as it starts up the incline. “You know about them,” he says.

Sinker gives him a crooked smile. “My _vod_ works on Coruscant,” he says, and Hound doesn’t get that many missions investigating the Pyke Sydnicate, given their sway in the Senate, but the Pykes have their fingers in almost every section of the underworld, for all they're mainly spice runners. He’s tripped over them enough times to have a hell of a lot of stories.

Savage is silent for another moment, and then says gruffly, “I need to find them. Maul and Feral.”

Sinker weighs responses to that, then says carefully, “If we find them, someone else could, too.”

Savage freezes, expression twisting, and he ducks his head, hands clenching into fists. Not rushing, Sinker slides his hand down, curls his fingers over Savage’s fist. He knows helplessness when he sees it, but he also knows logic, and what Plo wanted them to do. “Hey. Fox and Amidala will take care of Maul, and Wolffe won't let anything happen to Feral. They’ll be fine.”

Savage’s next sound is a low rumble, unhappy, but he jerks his head in a short nod. “We need a comm,” he says, and that tone means it’s not negotiable. “I can leave a message with the Pykes. But—a comm.”

“All right,” Sinker says easily. If they get a new one, or even swipe one off someone else, the odds that Ventress or the Nightsisters can track it will be slim. Fox got stripped of his comm when Maul and Savage must have taken his armor, and Wolffe will know to ditch his, but—Maul at least will know who to contact to get a message to Savage, and that should be safe enough. “Should be able to find a place to grab one.”

Savage slants him a look, but doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the window as the lift trundles through the first edge of the city, a cratered, half-regrown section of forest scattered with structures that get taller and closer as they go. The trees don’t quite give way, because the city is built around them, but they get thinner as the actual city starts. There's a brief break for a wide river that tumbles down the hill, and on the other side of it the buildings start back up, twice as tall as the trees and tightly-packed.

The first station is entirely empty as the lift rattles to a stop, and no one makes any move to get off.

That seems like a good sign to Sinker, and he casts a questioning glance at Savage, who pushes up straight and makes for the door. The platform outside is dingy, the set of stairs leading up to it collapsed, but Savage simply takes the five-meter drop like it’s nothing, steps away—

“Hang on there,” Sinker says, amused, as he leans over the edge to check where he’ll be landing. “We’re not all part loth-cat, thanks.”

Savage pauses, like this is news to him, and glances back. He eyes Sinker, then the drop, and reaches out a hand.

It feels like getting _grabbed_ , like some vast magnetic force just snatches him up off the stone and sends him careening through the air, and Sinker yelps. He grabs for a handhold, but there isn't any, and there's no time to get his feet under himself, no way to slow his fall—

Big hands grab him around the waist, catching him in midair, and Sinker latches onto the nearest solid thing. He digs his fingers into dark cloth, clings despite himself as that force vanishes, and above him there's a huff of clear amusement.

“I don’t know,” Savage says, and the humor is clear in his voice for the first time. “You have your claws in me like a scared loth-cat.”

Sinker scoffs, and he has a leg halfway hooked over Savage’s hip, but he refuses to feel bad about that, considering how far he just dropped. “Yeah, and if you do that without warning me again, I’ll scratch you like a loth-cat, too,” he says, though he mostly doesn’t mean it. Carefully, he lets go of Savage’s cloak, loosens his leg, and tries not to think about how Savage is just holding him off the ground without any apparent effort.

Savage snorts, but loosens his grip and drops Sinker to the ground. Sinker lands, then straightens carefully, adjusting his blaster over his shoulder, and—Jango wasn’t a huge man, especially compared to the average height of some of the Jedi, but Sinker’s bulky. He’s never felt _small_ before, even when Plo and General Kenobi and General Windu are all a few heads taller. Getting picked up is something completely new, though, and Sinker’s…well. Impressed is a good word. Mostly. There are some other feelings in there that he doesn’t want to look at too closely right now.

 _Sith_ , he reminds himself pointedly, and takes a very deliberate breath. “Thanks,” he says, and turns, looking around them. The street is empty, only a few hovercars overhead, and the slope rises sharply here, the buildings framing a blasted-open hole in the hillside that halfway overgrown with trees and greenery. Buildings march right into it, and Sinker eyes the entrance, then raises a brow at Savage. “What are the odds that the underground here is _literally_ underground?”

“Good,” Savage says, and his eyes are fixed on the old mine, narrowed. “I sense greed there.”

“Politicians or criminals,” Sinker concludes wryly. “Either way, there's probably some place to get a comm. And to hole up for a bit.”

Savage grunts, then pauses. Reaches out, deliberate and slow, and pulls Sinker’s hood back up over his head. Sinker holds still as he does, a little surprised, because Savage hasn’t exactly initiated any touches even if he hasn’t seemed to mind them. This is barely a touch, honestly, but there's a brush of knuckles against Sinker’s hair, the faintest graze of warm skin against Sinker’s cheek, and then Savage lets go, stepping away.

“Come,” he says, rough, and Sinker _refuses_ to make the first joke that rises to the surface, because odds are it would be _sure, if you want me to_ , and that’s not appropriate at _all_.

Alarmingly, Sinker would probably mean it a good bit more than intended, too.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!

“My dear senator, surely this isn't _necessary_ —”

“If you keep wiggling, Captain, I'm going to assume you're attempting to escape,” Padmé says evenly, and when Hondo pauses to eye her warily, she smiles at him, though her blaster doesn’t waver. Fox is watching them carefully from where he has his arm locked into the bone-mender, free hand near a blaster stolen from Hondo’s belt, but he’s not trying to take control, and he’s let Padmé take the lead, which manages to be both flattering and mildly unnerving. It’s appreciated, though, and Padmé isn't about to waste this opportunity now that it’s been presented to her.

Hondo casts her another sideways look, halfway between wary and admiring, but he settles back in his chair with a chuckle, raising his hands.

“Just business, my dear senator,” he says. “You appeared with a business rival, and I'm afraid my competitive spirit got the better of me.”

Not Fox. Padmé is willing to bet on that. So that leaves Maul, and Padmé doesn’t know all the specifics of pirates and Sith Lords operating in the Outer Rim, but she’s willing to bet that those specifics include a lot of illegal activities that would make the Jedi tear their hair out.

Padmé isn't a Jedi, though, and right now she’s in league with one of those Sith Lords. Maul is valuable, and he has information she _needs_ , and she’s not about to let him fall prey to criminal rivalries before she gets that name from him.

“Maul and I have an arrangement,” she says evenly, and holds Hondo’s gaze as his eyes flicker back to her. “I don’t care what rivalries you have at other times, but until my business is concluded, he is not to be touched.”

Hondo laughs at that, leaning back in his chair and pulling a foot up to brace his boot against the seat. “Senator Amidala, _surely_ you don’t expect me to allow this madman to run roughshod over my empire while I do nothing,” he says, and it’s wheedling, but there's also something ruthless in his face, a recognizable sharpness just hidden behind the humor. “My men must eat! _I_ must eat! Already he nibbles his way towards the center of my strongholds, picking off my friends as he does. It cannot be allowed to continue.”

“You’ll have to allow it for a few more weeks at least,” Padmé says, and her heart is in her throat, but she won't waver. “A deal—I keep Maul from engaging with any of your _friends_ until my business with him is through.”

Hondo makes a thoughtful sound, tapping his chin grandly. “That _would_ be a good deal,” he says. “Provided you could hold him to it. But though you are very pretty, Senator, I think Lord Maul's attention strays more than any one person can control.”

Fox makes a sound of anger and pushes up, like he’s going to grab the blaster and drag his arm right out of the bone-mender, but Padmé catches his eye and shakes her head. She doesn’t need someone to defend her honor. She can do that just fine on her own.

“Your implications debase your own intelligence far more than mine, Captain,” she says, and Hondo frowns, like he’s trying to work out her meaning. Padmé doesn’t give him time, just tips her blaster and says, “Maul and I have far more important things to focus on than your empire, and I would not think to encroach on your territory.”

With a quiet snort, Fox settles back into his seat, wincing faintly as he adjusts his arm. His gaze flickers to Maul on the other side of the room, a med-droid buzzing around the table he’s sprawled out on as it repairs his prosthetics, then slides back to Padmé.

“We’re getting Maul _out_ of your business, Hondo,” he says. “Not further into it. If you let us keep going without trouble, he’ll probably never bother you again.”

Hondo blinks, then laughs. “That _is_ a good deal,” he says. “But still, I do not trust you. Hondo Ohnaka is a great prize for the Republic­—”

“We’re not working for the Republic,” Padmé says, and when Hondo stops, startled, she smiles. Lie, mostly, but—he’s a pirate. It’s fine. “This is a personal project. I'm sure you understand.”

Hondo chuckles, reaching up to adjust his hat. “ _Personal_ , is it?” he asks. “Well! I certainly understand that, my dear senator. But I had not thought you were the type.”

It’s reckless, but—Padmé smiles. “I'm recently divorced,” she says. “And enjoying my freedom.”

It’s not going to be hard for anyone who hears that to link her back to Anakin, to draw all the correct conclusions. But she doesn’t _care_. At one time it would have ruined her career, but—she’s already an anti-war senator in the midst of a wave of pro-war propaganda, and more than that, she’s made her own reputation. She’s done enough to establish herself. Anakin can face the consequences of their actions. Padmé isn't going to make excuses for him any longer.

That gets her an outright laugh from Hondo, and he grins at her. “Ah! You have broken the chains, my dear! My wise mother always said that her divorce was the happiest day of her life!”

“I'm glad for your mother, then,” Padmé says, and leans forward, reaching out to touch Hondo's hand. He meets her eyes, and Padmé smiles at him, and says, “Maul and the trooper are both helping me with something. I don’t want to interrupt your crew’s activities in any way. I just want to fix them up and keep moving.”

It might be her imagination, but she thinks she sees something in Hondo's gaze soften faintly. “A ceasefire, then,” he says grandly, but his hand is gentle when he pats her arm. “You may resupply and use the medical facilities in peace, and in return…a small fee. And an agreement that your Lord Maul will not make an attempt on my fleet.”

“Agreed,” Padmé says, and she can see all the loopholes, but—they’ll be on their guard. It will be enough for now, and should give them time to at least get away from whatever Hondo has planned. Deliberately, she lowers her blaster, then offers Hondo a hand, and smiles at him. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Captain.”

Hondo chuckles, clasping her wrist in a firm grip, then unfolding himself from his chair. “The pleasure is mine, Senator! Ah, we should celebrate this momentous occasion!”

“Celebrate which occasion?” Padmé asks, bemused, and rises to her feet.

“Your divorce, of course!” Hondo says, and sweeps his arms out. “And this cessation of hostilities with Lord Maul! Both make this a good day!”

Padmé can't help but smile. “Well,” she says. “Let me contribute to the celebration fund, then. Drinks for everyone.”

“I knew I liked you, Senator,” Hondo says, and the smile he gives in return makes wariness prickle down Padmé’s spine. “I shall alert my crew. They will be _most_ pleased.”

“Very well,” Padmé agrees, and slides her blaster away as Hondo turns and heads for the door. She doesn’t try to stop him, just watches him disappear through the door. As soon as it closes behind the swish of his coat, Padmé heads for it, studying the controls for a moment before she digs her fingernails into the panel above it, hauls the cover off, and grabs the visible wires. A hard jerk tears them out completely, and Padmé lets them dangle, checks that the lights have gone dark, and turns.

Fox is watching her, both brows raised. “Negotiations going that badly?” he asks dryly.

Padmé gives him a crooked smile, crossing to check the bone-mender’s progress. Almost done, and she lets out a breath of relief.

“They're about to become _aggressive_ negotiations,” she says, and refuses to feel bad for using Anakin's term. His aggressive negotiations lean towards _might makes right_ as their final outcome; Padmé just wants to get Fox and Maul away without anyone getting killed, even if it means making deals with pirates. “Hondo has to know how much the Republic would pay for Maul, and how much the Separatists would pay for the two of us.”

“I figured you didn’t just forget my rank,” Fox says a little dryly, and raises a hand to stop Padmé before she can even try to apologize. “I think he’s close to done, too. Less sparks, at least.”

Padmé nods, takes a breath, and leaves him to let the mender finish, heading for Maul's bed. The droid working on his legs looks up and beeps, and Padmé inclines her head to it politely.

“I won't disturb you,” she promises. “Thank you for the help.”

The droid beeps, sounding pleased, and Padmé gives it a smile, then leans over Maul, touching his cheek gently. “Maul,” she says, quiet. “I think we need to leave soon.”

Maul's eyes slide open, and he grimaces, raising a hand to tangle his fingers in his horns. “ _Greed_ ,” he mutters, but the way his eyes fix on Padmé is at least a little more aware.

“From Hondo?” Padmé says, dry. “I imagine that’s a strong impression, yes.”

Maul's expression twists, but not like he’s disagreeing. One of his legs twitches hard, then freezes stiff, and he growls, low and rumbling in his chest. Before he can make to sit up, Padmé presses a gentle hand to his chest and asks the droid, “I'm sorry, but­—how much longer?”

The droid whirs, and Padmé breathes out, nods to it. “Only a few more minutes, Maul. Then I'm going to need you to help us escape, all right?”

“He’s _lurking_ ,” Maul hisses. “Lurking beyond the door like a _rat_ , waiting to spring.”

The difficult part, Padmé thinks, resigned, is parsing out whether he means Hondo or the Sith Lord at this point. “Hondo?” she asks. “Is Hondo the one waiting?”

“Of course he is,” Maul snaps. “Didn’t I just say that?”

Startled, Padmé pulls back, then stops. “Maul?” she asks carefully.

Maul pulls a face at her, flicking his fingers dismissively. “Don’t _simper_ over me,” he says sharply, and pushes up, getting an elbow underneath himself. “Where is Asajj? Savage? Did she take Feral?”

“Don’t get up,” Padmé says automatically, pressing a hand to his chest. Realizes, belatedly, that this isn't Maul halfway out of his mind with Nightsister magics, and restrains a wince. “Only a few more minutes and your legs will be fixed.”

Maul grimaces, but settles back on the bed with a grudging sort of acceptance. “I assume our bargain is ongoing, then,” he says, and his gaze is too sharp when it narrows on Padmé. “My brothers?”

“Ventress did something to you,” Padmé says, and doesn’t hesitate to meet his gaze. “She was controlling you, Savage, and Feral, and Master Koon thought the best way to help was to get all of you out of her reach. You’ve been…not yourself.”

For a long, long moment, Maul stares at her, and then his expression twists with disgust. He drops his head back against the bed, his disgust clear, and breathes out. “Not myself,” he repeats. “By which I assume you mean I have been _entirely_ myself without any augmentation.”

That’s not exactly what Padmé was expecting him to say. She pauses, weighing her response, and then says, “The Nightsisters were in your head.”

The way Maul laughs is all velvet and lethal edges. “Not _just_ the Nightsisters,” he says darkly, and his hands fist against the bed even as luminous golden eyes settle on Padmé. “I fell, on Naboo,” he says, and Padmé knows very well when someone is trying to get a reaction from her, so she doesn’t give him the satisfaction. “I fell, and was taken away into exile, but Sith magics sustained me. I _survived_ , survived on my rage and hatred and plotted my escape for ten long years, little queen.”

“Sith magics,” Padmé says, testing, and—the realizations settle. “That’s how you lived through being cut in half. But—when Ventress tried to take control of you, you were…”

“Mad,” Maul finishes, whisper-soft. “So very mad. Not _myself_.”

“Why come back to yourself now?” Padmé asks evenly. “Are we far enough away? Or did Mother Talzin turn her attention to your brothers, so her hold is slipping on you?”

Maul's eyes widen, and he stiffens just faintly, like he hadn’t considered that. A possibility, then, and Padmé tugs at her sleeve, takes a breath, and nods. “We were planning to take you to a Sith world,” she says. “Prakith, because that’s where you said the Sith who taught the Nightsisters came from. To see if there was a way to undo this.”

“Prakith,” Maul repeats. “Prakith, the home of the immortal God-King. But not his seat of power, and not where he was born. Korriban, Korriban is the birthplace of the Sith, the home of their magic. If we are to find a way, it will be there.”

“Will we be able to find a way to help you there?” Padmé presses.

Maul pauses, and the fact that he’s even weighing the question is a relief. “The Dark Side is the pathway to many answers, and no place is stronger in it than Korriban,” he says, and when he tilts his head to meet Padmé’s gaze again, there's a burning sort of avarice in his eyes. “My Master is old, and cunning, but even he hasn’t learned all of Korriban’s secrets. If there is a way to defeat him, I will find it on Korriban.”

Defeat him. Padmé breathes in, breathes out, closes her eyes. She’d thought that handing over his name to the Jedi would be enough, but—time and again they’ve learned that there's a Sith in the Senate, but every attempt to investigate has been stopped cold. Even Dooku outright telling Anakin and Obi-Wan wasn’t enough. So—defeating him is the next step beyond revealing him. Giving Maul the power to do it seems like it will backfire spectacularly, but—he’s also less cunning, more overt. He can be bargained with, and reasoned with, and Padmé will take her chances with a known evil over one that’s been lurking in the shadows for decades.

“Then we go to Korriban,” she says, and the faint sound of a step behind her makes her turn and cast a wry smile at Fox as he approaches. “Where on Korriban, exactly?”

Maul's gaze flickers from her to Fox and back, and he frowns. “Darth Andeddu,” he says. “Once he was the Dark Lord of the Sith. He reigned from a keep on Korriban that has been lost to time and lies. When he fled to Prakith, he destroyed it, burying it along with all of his knowledge and artifacts.”

“Useful,” Fox says, biting. “Unless you want us to launch an archeological dig on the Sith homeworld—”

Maul growls, and this time when he sits up he catches Padmé’s wrist before she can make to stop him. “Mind your _tongue_ , clone,” he warns. “There is a _reason_ that Andeddu’s keep remains untouched, and that is because it has never been _found_. It was made of stone with a special signature, unfindable to any without a piece of the rock it was wrought from. If we search Korriban, and find that stone—”

“When no one else has,” Fox says blandly. “Even the Sith who trained you.”

Gently but firmly, Padmé tugs her wrist out of Maul's grasp. “We’ll go to Korriban,” she says quietly, and when Maul and Fox both look at her, she raises a brow at them. “Even if we can't find this keep in particular, we might be able to find _something_. We don’t know how much longer Maul will be himself, but if Korriban really is so thoroughly Dark, it might hide him from the Nightsisters and their power.”

Fox pauses, considering that, and then nods. “All right,” he allows, folding his arms over his chest. He’s still holding Hondo's blaster. “Korriban. Getting through the Stygian Caldera will be dangerous.”

Maul snorts, waving a hand like that’s of no concern. “Beyond Ord Radama, in a straight line between the system’s star and the star Dromund, there is a gap in the nebula that small craft may pass through. We may slip through there, and any traces will be lost to the Cladera’s energy.”

Things only a Sith would know, Padmé thinks ruefully, and inclines her head. She glances at the droid just as it pulls away, and the droid beeps at her, then wheels back towards its charging station, and Padmé smiles.

“It looks like you're finished,” she says, and offers Maul her hand. “We should leave before Hondo returns.”

Maul grimaces faintly, but he eyes her hand for a moment, then pointedly ignores it and slides off the bed. His legs hold without sparking, and he straightens carefully, then takes two steps without trouble.

“Sufficient,” he allows, like Padmé can't see the edges of his relief. “Let us—”

There's a loud bang, a thud, and the door groans. Fox lunges, grabbing Padmé and hauling her back, and Maul turns with a snarl, baring his teeth—

With a crash, the door wrenches open, and Hondo raises his arms as he approaches. “My dear senator! We took care of the door for you, no need to worry! Very poor, the state of this world. A shame, a shame.”

Padmé deftly steps around Fox as he bristles, offering Hondo her sweetest smile. “Captain. Thank you, I was worried we would be trapped.”

Hondo laughs, giving her a grand bow. “At your service, Senator. The Ohnaka Gang lives to serve. And my crew is most excited to invite you to our celebration while your ship is resupplied! All supplies provided by the kind people of Scarif, of course.”

Padmé doesn’t wince, but she wants to. “Thank you, Captain. We would be honored to attend.” When Hondo offers her his arm, she takes it, smiling up at him, and says, “I won't even pull a blaster on you this time.”

Hondo chuckles, patting her hand where it rests on his arm. “Now, now, my dear senator. The night is still young. No promises you can't keep, hm?” He leads her towards the door, where one of his pirates is poking skeptically at the control panel, and Padmé glances back over her shoulder, tilting her head at Fox and Maul.

Neither of them looks at all pleased, but Fox grimaces and follows, closing the gap with long strides and falling in behind her. It takes Maul another moment, but at length he sighs dramatically and follows as well, trailing just far enough behind that it’s clear he’s not following orders and simply made up his own mind to come along.

“I'm afraid I'm not dressed for a party, Captain,” Padmé says demurely. “Would you be willing to wait while I return to the ship and see if I can find a change of clothes?”

“Not to worry, we have plenty of fashion tucked away,” Hondo assures her, and winks. “The last ship we boarded was bound for Alderaan, and you know how they are about clothes.”

“Almost as bad as the Naboo,” Padmé says, perfectly mild, and Hondo laughs.

“Indeed, indeed,” he says, and casts a look back at Fox and Maul, something sharp and amused in his eyes. “And clothes for your companions, of course! No one should attend a party in rags.”

Maul's expression twists in offense, and he reaches for his belt like he’s going for the lightsaber they left back on Sekind. Fox’s fingers twitch towards his blaster, too, and Padmé gives them both an exasperated look and then turns her smile on Hondo again.

“You're quite thoughtful, Captain,” she says. “I have to say, I expected otherwise, given your reputation.”

“I am a pirate,” Hondo says grandly. “That does not mean I am without manners. Especially when a beautiful person is concerned! Tell me, Senator, do you know Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“Of course,” Padmé says, and—well. The memory of Anakin telling her about Hondo chaining him and Obi-Wan to Dooku and holding them all for ransom probably shouldn’t be as amusing as it is, but at least she feels less remorse for wanting to laugh now. “He’s quite the Jedi, isn't he?”

“Quite the friend!” Hondo agrees cheerfully. “We are very good friends, Senator. And he is very charming to his allies, is he not?”

“I think he’s charming to everyone,” Padmé says, a little dry, and can _feel_ Maul bristling. “Even when they're trying to kill him.”

“That is just _business_ ,” Hondo says dismissively, and escorts her down the steps from the medical center. The landing pads here are filled with the Ohnaka Gang’s ships, and there are plenty of pirates loading crates, or relaxed and laughing around a bonfire. Padmé tries not to look too hard at the pieces of what look like furniture that make it up. “Your friend Lord Maul knows what I mean, yes?”

“I,” Maul says, all tightly leashed fury, “will _destroy_ Kenobi. I do not wish to be his _friend_.”

“A great loss, then. But understandable! Kenobi is a good enemy as well!” Hondo says cheerfully. “Skragg! See the senator to our stores, along with her companions! Then we will feast!”

One of the Weequay pirates straightens from where he’s loading crates, then approaches, grinning. “Dresses for all three?” he asks.

Hondo chuckles. “If they wish. No harm to them, Skragg—the lady has offered to buy us drinks!”

Skragg tips his hat to Hondo, then says, “This way, up here. The stores are on Hondo's personal ship.”

“Thank you,” Padmé demurs, following him as he leads the way towards one of the ships. Fox falls into step with her, a little closer than he might be otherwise, and Padmé touches his knuckles lightly in reassurance. Even if they can't slip away right now, she’s sure there will be a chance later. Letting the pirates get drunk seems like the perfect diversion, and if that means humoring Hondo for a few hours, it’s at least easily done.

“You have more crew members than I expected,” she says to Skragg. “The Ohnaka Gang must be doing well.”

Skragg chuckles. “Very well,” he agrees, with obvious pride. “Even the Pyke Syndicate pays us for passage through the Outer Rim. The captain is a good businessman.”

“He must be,” Padmé murmurs, and climbs the ramp into the ship with careful steps, wary of a trap. Maul doesn’t seem to sense anything out of the ordinary, though; he simply looks displeased, not wary, and that’s enough to settle her nerves a little.

Skragg’s grin widens, gains teeth. “Good enough that your friend wants to put him out of business,” he says, glancing back at Maul, who gives him a narrow look in return.

“I wanted us to go into business together,” Maul says coolly. “However, I find myself…preoccupied, at the moment. Your _gang_ will have to wait for my attention, I'm afraid.”

Skragg doesn’t look overly put out by that idea, and grins at Padmé as he throws open a door. “Here, Senator. Not every day we get someone like you around here.”

“Someone who pulls a blaster on your captain?” Padmé asks mildly, and Skragg laughs.

“And doesn’t blink,” he agrees, then tips his hat and steps back, taking up a spot against the far wall. Padmé glances at him, then steps into the storage room, careful of the towering stack of plastoid crates. They're marked with a logo she recognizes, a fashion house based on Hosnian Prime, and she grimaces a little, but checks the markings on the closest ones as Maul gives the cramped room a derisive once-over.

Fox deliberately closes the door behind them, engaging the privacy lock, and says quietly, “I hope you have a plan, Padmé.”

“Let the pirates drink themselves under the table, then get back to our ship and leave,” Padmé confirms. “If that means amusing Hondo for a few hours, I can manage. He’s better company than the Trade Federation’s viceroy, at least.”

Fox snorts, but when she starts pulling down a box, he comes to help, and together they get it on the ground. “That’s a low bar.”

Padmé brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes and gives him a crooked smile. “Higher than you might expect,” she says, and glances back at Maul, raising a brow. “I would rather not make an enemy of Hondo. Do you have another proposition, Maul?”

Maul folds his arms over his chest, looking like he just bit into something unpleasant. “My lightsaber—”

“If we kill any of Hondo's pirates, he’ll almost certainly sell us out to the Separatists,” Padmé points out. “Humoring him is our best option for escaping without drawing more attention to ourselves.”

“Very well,” Maul says, clearly displeased. “Should the Nightsisters turn their attention back to me—”

“We’ll hope that getting you through the Stygian Caldera will be enough to disrupt their hold,” Padmé promises, and meets his gaze. “I plan to keep my word, Maul.”

Maul doesn’t answer, expression dark and brooding as he leans back against the door, and Padmé gives him several moments, then turns back to the crate and smiles at Fox across the top of it.

“Can I confess something?” she asks with humor, and Fox raises a brow at her, curious.

“Confess? Why, is it something bad?” he asks, but—

Not like he believes it is, and after the way he flinched away from her drawing her blaster on Sekind, that alone is enough to make something warm root itself in Padmé’s chest.

“Possibly,” she says, and unlocks the lid. “I always wanted to be a pirate when I was a child. I knew I was going to run for queen, but—my sister Sola gave me a pirate hat with a huge red feather, and I loved it.”

Fox huffs out a laugh, reaching into the box and pulling out a tangle of fiery crimson cloth. “Not a feather,” he says, offering it to her, “but it’s red.”

Padmé takes it, smiling. “Now,” she says, amused, “I just need a bigger blaster.”


	28. Chapter 28

The only high ground is the top of the canyon.

The water is just behind them, crashing down through the width of the ravine with a force that makes the earth shake under their feet, and Feral has half a second of pure panic to compare it to a rockslide in the mountains, one fractured moment of familiar terror—

Wolffe trips. The sand shifts beneath his feet, beneath his heavy armor, and he lurches forward even as the wave crests high, blood-red from the silt. Feral feels the jerk on their connected hands, and Wolffe tries to let go, shouts something angry and alarmed and full of command, but Feral doesn’t listen. He tightens his grip, wrenches around, hauls Wolffe up. The impact of him slamming into Feral knocks Feral back on his heels, puts him off-balance, but he doesn’t care.

“Go!” Wolffe shouts in his ear, furious, but Feral doesn’t even waver. He wraps an arm around Wolffe, hurls them forward with a Force-assisted shove, and hits a section of the canyon wall right where the river curves. Not high enough, not even _close_ , and Wolffe yelps, grabbing onto him. Feral’s fingers slip on the stone, and he grits his teeth, gets a foot on crumbling rock, and leaps again, finding a hand hold, then another. Wolffe is _heavy_ , though, and he can feel himself slipping, one hand not enough to keep him steady.

“Let go!” Wolffe snaps, grabbing for the wall, but he won't be able to hold himself up without the Force, won't be able to get high enough to avoid the water, and Feral ignores him. Wedging his foot into a crevice, he hauls Wolffe up against him, pulling Wolffe’s arms around his neck, and Wolffe gets the picture a moment later. He latches onto Feral’s back as best he can, and it’s still awkward, threatens to pull Feral right off the rock face, but he leaps up more easily, has both hands free to hold as he climbs. A spray of water hits him, and Feral curses, throws himself sideways. The corner where the river bends is just ahead, and as the edge of the flood hits the stone a handful of meters away, Feral grabs a sharp spur of rock and slingshots them sideways around it.

There's a sound of alarm, a wrench in the arms around his neck, but Feral sees the ledge of stone above them just as the water crashes into the corner, and he hits hard, launches them up and grabs the edge. With a thundering rumble the water sweeps beneath them, catching Feral’s boot and almost dragging him down, and he snarls, scrambles for a better hold, and hauls himself up with a cry of effort, spilling himself and Wolffe onto flat stone.

Below, the entire canyon is nothing but a river of blood-colored water, crashing and raging as it hurtles onward. There are trees caught up in the flood, boulders and deadwood, and Feral drags Wolffe back across the shelf of stone they're on, towards the deep crack in the cliff that forms it. There are scratches on the stone, gouges that make Feral worry about rising water, but—

“ _Kriff_ ,” Wolffe says, and gets an arm around Feral, hauling him back and right up against the stone.

Feral digs his fingers into Wolffe’s painted pauldrons, trying to catch his breath, and only belatedly realizes there's a smear of red across Wolffe’s armor. Alarm sparks, and he rolls up onto his knees, leaning over Wolffe and trying to see the source of the blood. “Wolffe? Where are you hurt? There's—”

Wolffe wrenches his helmet off and drops it beside him, then grabs Feral’s wrist. “Not _me_ , you idiot,” he bites out, and Feral blinks in surprise, then looks down to where his palm is dripping red. It’s only then that the ache of torn skin registers, and he sits back on his heels, a little startled.

“Oh,” he says, relieved, and glances back at the cliff. There's no way to see what cut him beneath the roaring water, but—he must have done it while he was climbing.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Wolffe repeats, annoyed, and pulls Feral’s hand back towards him. There are more smears on his armor, on the edge of his helmet where Feral must have touched him while getting Wolffe on his back, and Feral winces.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t even feel it.”

Wolffe sighs, and it’s aggrieved, but not actively angry. “Don’t _apologize_ ,” he says, and gently opens Feral’s hand, checking the cut. “Kriff, this is deep. I only have a bacta patch with me, and this is going to need the gel.”

If they were on Dathomir, Feral would know the herbs to find to make a poultice—that was one of the jobs he volunteered for most often, despite how much picking plants annoyed Savage. But here, he has no idea what’s helpful and what’s harmful, and even if he _did_ know, all of the greenery is currently buried under twenty meters of swiftly-moving water.

“The patch will work,” Feral says, and carefully pulls his hand back from Wolffe. There's still a hum of unspent adrenaline in him, bringing the world into sharper focus, making him calmer, and he breathes out, glances at the flood, and then rises to his feet. The shelf of rock they're on is wide, long, and the cliff wall here twists into a deep depression that’s shadowed by the overhang and the slope of the stone. It’s stable enough, doesn’t seem like it will gave way on them any time soon, and Feral breathes out in relief, then checks that he still has his lightsaber.

Against the cliff, Wolffe settles back with a heavy breath, glances out at the water. Feral can feel the sharp, gutting jolt of his shock, then a wash of anger, and he startles, grabs for his lightsaber—

“I dropped Fil's helmet,” Wolffe says, rough, and he rubs a hand over his face, smearing a small streak of Feral’s blood there. Feral winces, but loosens his grip on the hilt with a breath.

“Better that you saved yourself than the helmet,” he offers quietly, and Wolffe snorts, looking up at him with something deeply tired in his face.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s recognition, resignation. Feral feels something turn sharply in his chest at the sound of it, and he wants to reach out to Wolffe, offer him comfort, say _something_ that will make losing this last piece of his friend a little better, but there isn't anything. Not that Feral can think of, at least—

A step, soft on stone, and a warning washes down Feral’s spine like a flare shattering in the sky.

Instantly, desperately, Feral wrenches sideways as a shadow rises, blade igniting in a wash of red. It strikes green it with a bone-deep hum, slides across the other blade, and Feral sees the kick coming just in time to leap back as it skims past him. He trips, scrambles back to his feet to block a thrust, manages to sidestep another, and lunges, blade-first. There's a whirl of long hair as the Jedi spins, and it looks like an opening, looks like a vulnerability, and instinct, training says to take it, but Feral falters. He thinks of Plo, hesitates—

Only it’s not an opening at all, because faster than Feral would have thought possible there’s a twist, a blow. His lightsaber jerks in his hand, almost tumbling from his grip, and he jerks back—

Right into stone, with a lightsaber at his throat.

“Sith,” the Jedi in front of him says, and Feral’s breath catches as he finally gets a clear look at him. Zabrak, obviously Iridonian, with two large, impressive horns crowning his head and a tangle of long black hair falling down his back. The lightsaber’s blade reflects in dark eyes, narrowed dangerously, and Feral can fee something twist in his chest, a shiver of something like recognition, awareness. He freezes, and Agen Kolar's expression isn't wavering, is deadly in a way that makes Feral know to hold very, very still.

“General!” Wolffe says, and a moment later he’s right beside them, though he doesn’t try to pull Agen away. “General Kolar, he’s with me. General Koon sent us to find you.”

Agen's gaze doesn’t so much as waver from Feral’s. “Master Plo did,” he says, and his voice is low, steady. “Why would Plo have sent a Sith to me?”

Wolffe hesitates, clearly uncertain how to answer, but Feral raises his chin. He doesn’t look away from Agen, but says as evenly as he can manage, “Because I need your help.”

There's a pause, and then Agen shifts back, blade dipping. “You,” he says, like a realization. “You are the Nightbrother Plo was helping.”

The breath shudders out of Feral’s lungs, and he slumps back against the stone in relief, nodding quickly. “I'm—” he starts, but the words die in his throat. _Not a Sith_ , he was going to say, except—he is a Sith, by training and loyalty, even if he betrayed Maul. But he’s not a _good_ Sith, not skilled at any of their techniques, not fond of their methods, and he has no idea what that makes him. Uncertainty shivers through him, and he has to swallow hard. Hesitates, and finishes, “I'm…Feral.”

It’s the only thing he can think of to say.

Agen looks him over for a drawn-out moment, then inclines his head, long hair falling around his shoulders. He straightens, deactivating his lightsaber, and clips it to his belt. “The blood?” he asks, casting a sideways look at Wolffe.

With a jolt, Feral realizes how it must have looked to Agen, seeing them. _Feeling_ them, because Wolffe was angry and hurting, and smeared with blood, and—

“Oh,” he says, a little ruefully, and switches his lightsaber off as well. “It’s mine. I must have cut my hand on the rock while we were climbing.”

Wolffe glances down at himself and mutters a curse. “We almost got caught in the flood, sir,” he says. “Only just got out of it.”

Agen inclines his head, and Feral can feel the flicker of his relief. “The Separatist Forces have been breaking the dams upriver,” he says. “They seek to flush us out so they can advance towards the refining plant to the north.” He looks Feral over again, one slow sweep of consideration and careful assessment, and then he says, “Come. There are drones, and we should speak inside.”

“Inside?” Feral asks, confused, and Agen casts him a sideways glance that’s almost amusement and turns, ducking under the overhang of rock and slithering down into a section of particularly deep shadow. He vanishes, and Feral blinks, then casts a look at Wolffe, who picks up his helmet with a grimace.

“Caves,” he says, and it’s clear from that tone he’s not fond of them at all. After the Nightsisters’ temple, Feral can't say he particularly likes them either, but—

A Zabrak Jedi, he thinks, and it shivers through him like a bell rung too close, singing in his bones. Iridonian, but—he’s a _Zabrak_.

Steeling himself, Feral ducks forward, catching the edge of the stone and feeling for the opening. It’s in the floor, well-hidden by shadows and the overhang, and Feral blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust, then slips through, landing lightly on smooth stone. It’s a long drop, and he glances back up at the ceiling, then says, “I can catch you, Wolffe. It’s about seven meters.”

There's a sound of disgust from above that makes him smile, and then Wolffe says, “Catch.”

Feral takes two steps forward and snatches Wolffe’s helmet out of the air, then calls, “I got it.”

A pair of boots appear above, and Feral raises a hand, breathes. Easy, with the receding fear, to slow Wolffe’s fall as he drops, let him land easily and without impact, and Feral offers him his helmet back as soon as he’s steady. When Wolffe makes no move to put it back on, just tucks it under his arm, Feral takes that as a sign that the air down here should be safer, and he unwinds the scarf from his face, tugging the folds of cloth down around his neck.

The cave around them looks entirely natural, not carved, and it’s low-ceilinged, fairly narrow as it passes beneath the opening above. The passageway dips from here, heading downward, and Feral looks around them with a flicker of something like nostalgia. There were caves like this in the hills above the village, and the deeper ones were full of predators, but—he and Savage used to explore the shallower ones when they were children.

“I didn’t realize the cliffs were hollow,” he says, brushing his fingers over the smooth stone of the walls.

When he glances up, Agen is watching him, considering. “Many of them,” he confirms after a moment. “The land here is full of caves, and the people take shelter in them when the dust is heavy.” He tips his head, gesturing for them to follow, and Feral does so without hesitation, falling into step behind him. A moment later, Wolffe catches up, settling his helmet on his hip, and his face looks grimmer than Feral would have expected after finding the Jedi.

“Wolffe?” he asks quietly, but Wolffe just gives him a sideways look and doesn’t answer.

“Plo failed to mention that he was sending you to me so soon,” Agen says from ahead of them. “Or that he was sending you at all—I had thought he would bring you himself.”

Feral hesitates, not sure how to answer, and swallows hard. Before he has to come up with a response, though, Wolffe says darkly, “Sorry, General. Circumstances changed. I'm sure General Koon would be here if he could.”

Agen turns his head, and the look on his face is hard to read, but Feral can feel the spike of his alarm and grief tangling, the wash of it that fills the passage and then falters under the clamp of his control.

“He’s not dead,” he says quickly, and hopes it’s true. “I—my brothers—” Pauses, swallows at the confession, because it’s still a little raw to think what Maul and Savage mean to everyone else compared to what they mean to him, and says, “My brothers tried to get me back from Plo, but Ventress interrupted. She was controlling us with Nightsister magic, but—she shouldn’t be able to use the magic herself.”

Agen takes a moment as he breathes, then turns to face the corridor ahead. Instead of answering, he raises a fist and raps on the stone five times, then makes a sharp turn into a narrow crack and takes a set of rough-carved steps down. “Bultar, peace.”

“Oh no,” a woman’s voice says, wholly amused. “Did you find another nexu in the tunnels, Agen?”

A hand on Feral’s elbow stops him before he can follow, and he glances back, startled. Wolffe doesn’t waver; he pushes past Feral, going first, and Feral is more than happy to let him.

“Something else on the doorstep,” Agen says, and Feral swallows, but slides through the crack and down the steps right behind Wolffe. Beyond the stairs, the room opens out into a wide space with a high ceiling, split by a trickling stream and lit by sunlight from an open shaft in the ceiling. Two squads of clone troopers are scattered around it, some with light green on their armor, others with deep red-brown, all relaxed, and there's a woman just rising, a Jedi with olive-green tunics and a bob of black hair. Her eyes flicker to Wolffe, surprise crossing her face, and then to Feral, and she freezes. Her hand twitches towards the lightsaber at her belt—

Agen catches her wrist. “Peace,” he says again, and Bultar, glances at his face, then takes a deliberate breath even as the clone behind her comes to his feet, all bristling tension as his eyes lock on Feral.

“General?” he asks, sharp, and the three scars that slant down across his face catch the light as he steps forward. Feral winces, shifting back, and there's a sound of annoyance before Wolffe grabs his arm, tugs him sideways, and very deliberately puts himself between Feral and the other clone.

“Commander Banks,” he says, pointed. “Got a promotion?”

Banks pauses, wary, and steals another look at his general, but Bultar isn't moving. Slowly, cautiously, he lowers his blaster, though that doesn’t exactly make Wolffe relax. “Not by choice, entirely,” he says. “Our commander got caught by the Seps on our last assignment. Couldn’t get to him in time.”

Grief flickers across Bultar’s face, and she inclines her head, gently pulling away from Agen's hold. “Commander Wolffe,” she says, approaching with measured steps, and her gaze only rests on Feral for a moment before she looks at Wolffe again and smiles. “It’s rare to see you away from Master Plo. Is he all right?”

Wolffe grimaces faintly, but nods to her. “General Swan. He was facing Ventress when we left, but I think she was on the retreat.”

Both brows rising, Bultar looks from Wolffe to Feral, who tries to make himself as unthreatening as possible, even if he knows how most of the wider galaxy tends to see Zabraks. She glances over at Agen, too, and Agen inclines his head.

“Plo mentioned he required assistance regarding a Nightbrother,” he says. “I assume this is what he meant.”

After a long moment, Bultar simply nods, accepting that. “All right,” she says, and offers Feral a small smile. “Welcome. It’s not every day a Sith asks for help.”

Banks’s breath catches, and he stiffens, but Wolffe gives him a dark look and tightens his grip around Feral’s elbow, pulling him forward. “General Koon sent us,” he says, entirely to Banks. “He's—”

“Wolffe?” a faintly incredulous voice asks, and Wolffe freezes. His grip goes bruising-tight on Feral’s arm, even as another clone pushes up from the circle of stones where Bultar and Banks were sitting. His armor is painted the red-brown of Agen's men, a circular design on the chestplate, and Wolffe stares at him like he’s a ghost.

“ _Fil_ ,” he says finally, all sharp edges, and Feral blinks in surprise. “What the hell, you _di’kutla chakaar,_ kriffing _shabuir­_ —”

“Hey, what—” Fil starts to protest, but before he can get another word out Wolffe crosses the space between them in two long strides, grabs him by the back of the neck, and shakes him lightly. Then, without another word, he drags him forward, thumping their foreheads together with force that has to hurt, and Feral can't help but grin, Wolffe’s relief and irritation bright and hot in his senses.

“Found your kriffing bucket in the river,” Wolffe says, pulling back, and Fil's expression flickers from confused offense to surprise to understanding, and then settles into regret.

“Lost it a few days ago,” he says quietly. “Clankers ambushed us while we were scouting, and the general only just got to us in time.” Leaning in, he bumps his forehead against Wolffe’s more lightly, then raises his head, and says, “But call me any of those again, _vaar'ika_ —”

Wolffe scoffs, getting a hand over his face and shoving him back. “Feral,” he says. “Give me your lightsaber, and maybe then Banks will stop twitching.”

Feral rolls his eyes a little at the order, not able to help it when Wolffe uses that tone, but it’s a decent enough idea. He unclips the long hilt from his belt, ignoring the way Agen goes still as he does, and offers it up, and Wolffe takes it and shoves it through his utility belt. He’s not sure how much it helps Banks, who’s still tense and wary, but it adds an edge of confusion to his alertness, and that’s enough for now.

“He’s a _Sith_ ,” Banks says. “I think I'm allowed to be a little twitchy.”

“Trained as a Sith, perhaps,” Agen says, and when Feral glances up at him, he tips his head, long hair shifting over his shoulders. It’s…kind of captivating. Feral is used to only the Nightsisters having hair, and theirs is pale, usually silver or red. He’s never seen a male Zabrak with hair like Agen's before. “But Plo would not have sent him if he were truly a Sith.”

Feral swallows. “I _was_ a Sith,” he manages, and—it still feels like he’s betraying Maul and Savage to say it. “But…I turned against them.”

“To save Fox and a senator,” Wolffe says quietly, like he wasn’t having doubts too just a few hours ago. Feral glances at him, but Wolffe is looking away, and Feral can't see his face. “But then Ventress showed up and it went to hell.”

“Ventress seems to have that effect,” Bultar says a little dryly. She settles back down on one of the low stones, crossing her legs, and tips her head at Banks. Silently, still not looking entirely pleased, he joins her, sinking down and putting his blaster in his lap. It makes Bultar smile at him, and she touches his knee, then says, “I'm Knight Bultar Swan.”

“Feral,” Feral returns, then hesitates. But—it’s a matter of trust, and after everything, he trusts Plo. Even more than that, he trusts _Wolffe_. Steeling himself, Feral dips his head to her and says, “Feral Opress.”

A hand touches his shoulder, and Agen says quietly, “A third brother, then.”

The grip of his hand is firm, unwavering even now that he knows the secret, and Feral swallows. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Maul and Savage are my brothers.”

Agen's gaze isn't _soft_ , but—there's no judgement in it, either. Acceptance, maybe, and something steady, and Feral feels…settled by it.

“Plo would not have argued for you if he did not believe in your change of heart,” Agen tells him. “You are welcome here.”

Feral can hardly breathe though the tightness in his throat. He swallows again, ducking his head, and the sight of the tattoos curled across his hands, the memories of them being inked into his skin, makes him say, a little choked, “I—I didn’t realize there were Zabrak Jedi. It’s—good.”

There's a long, long pause, and then Agen's hand slides up to cup the back of Feral’s neck. He ducks his head, all of that long hair falling around them like a veil, and gently touches his longer horns to Feral’s. From this close, even in the diffuse light, it’s easy to see the dotted tattoos that curve over Agen's cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, up his horns. A different sort of tradition, Feral thinks, and breathes out, a little shaky.

A Zabrak Jedi. A Zabrak _Master_ , who sits on the High Council, and he’s different, looks different, is from a different world, but—

The way he locks their horns together is exactly the same as how the Nightbrothers do it, and the grip of long fingers is familiar even though Agen isn't. Feral closes his eyes, and the quiet rumble deep in Agen's chest is a purr just like Savage’s was, back before everything.

“There are many of us in the Order,” Agen allows, and Feral’s chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. _Us_ , he thinks, and—it feels impossible, that one little word. “We are well-suited to it. It is my hope that the rest of the Nightbrothers will have the same opportunity to see that.”

Feral reaches up, dares to touch that long black hair where it curls over his wrist. It’s _soft_. “We used to talk about running away to Iridonia,” he says. “And—I didn’t—I never thought we _could_ be Jedi, but sometimes I wanted it. I wanted to be like _that_.”

Like the stories they were supposed to fear, that Brother Viscus meant to be warnings but Feral always took as hero tales. Jedi sweeping in to liberate people just because they needed help, warriors who wouldn’t touch the Dark Side and only acted out of a desire for justice, peace, fairness. They would have destroyed the Nightsisters, Viscus used to warn, and Savage was always the one who muttered about freedom and hating the Nightsisters and change, but—Feral felt it, too, even before Ventress came.

Agen carefully tips his head, freeing their horns, and pulls away just a little. “You were trained in the Dark,” he says, and his grip on the back of Feral’s neck loosens. He slides his hand forward, catching Feral’s chin, and gently tilts his head to study his face. “But it has not sunk its roots deep into your soul. Not yet.”

Feral shivers, a trace of foreboding latching on to his spine. He thinks of the way Plo taught him to meditate, the differences between how he felt then and the skin-crawling unpleasantness of just being _around_ Savage and Maul in their own meditation. He doesn’t want that. It’s all he knows, but—he doesn’t want it.

Seeing Agen, a Jedi, clad in Jedi robes and full of a tranquil sort of alertness that washes over Feral’s senses, drives that home in a way nothing else has.

“I need help,” he says, and swallows. His fingers find Agen's sleeve, tangle in it, tighten, and it’s hard but he still gets the words out. “Mother Talzin, she did something to me. And I want it _gone_. I don’t want to be her puppet anymore. I don't want to be a _Sith_ anymore.”

Agen makes a low, soothing sound, a rumble halfway to a purr, and his fingers drop from Feral’s chin to cover his hand. “I will help you in any way I can,” he promises, and Feral closes his eyes and lets himself feel _hope_.


	29. Chapter 29

The fact that Sinker is still leaning against the building across the narrow street when Savage emerges from the gambling den where the Pykes make their home is…almost bewildering.

In the doorway, Savage nearly pauses, nearly falters. The dim, watery glow of the lights in the underground don’t travel far beyond the edge of the streetlights, and Sinker’s picked a shadowy spot to tuck himself back into, but Savage can still see him clearly. Even more than that, he can feel the particular slant of his mind, careful calculation and awareness, watchful but quiet.

Savage’s shoulder stings where Sinker shot him, half an instant before Savage could reach Wolffe and kill him for drugging Feral. It’s healing, and it’s hardly a grievous wound, but—he’d felt Sinker’s mind a moment before the shot hit, even when he hadn’t had any idea who Sinker was. Calm, unhesitating, unwavering as he aimed and fired, and—

It feels like that now. Like Sinker is sizing up every person who walks past and cataloguing weak points. Aware, watchful, ready, and it’s nothing even close to Maul's constant tension but it still makes something settle deep in Savage’s chest.

Sinker is still waiting, though Savage had halfway expected him to run the moment Savage turned his back. He doesn’t entirely know how to take the fact that he _didn’t_.

“All set?” Sinker asks as Savage comes up beside him, and under the deep drape of the hood Savage can just see the way his eyes flicker to the doorway of the gambling den, like he’s waiting for the Pykes to burst out after Savage. The flicker of amusement Savage feels almost takes him by surprise, because—that might be the right reaction if Maul were here. But Savage can control himself at least long enough to speak to a handful of low-level syndicate members.

“Yes,” Savage says. Pauses, weighing what he should tell Sinker, and has no idea, but still says, “I told them a rival attacked us.”

The curve of Sinker’s smile under the hood is rueful. “True enough,” he says, and it is. True enough to pass for now, and Savage turns, heading up the easy slope of the tunnel where it winds deeper into the mountain. The buildings here are squat beneath the low ceiling of the tunnel, dark with the mountain’s dust, and too many of the minds here are dark and greedy and selfish in a way that’s far too familiar.

The Nightsisters encourage such things. Loyalty to Mother Talzin, always, but—in their own lives, the more Darkness they can hold and spread, the better.

Even if he’s not Force-sensitive, Sinker seems aware of the same thing; his eyes don’t stop sweeping the area around them, and his blaster is slung over one shoulder, close at hand and easy to grab. Savage can feel the tension in him, a thread pulled tight, and it echoes in his head in a way that sparks annoyance down Savage’s spine. He breathes through it, though, tries not to let it eat him whole. If they draw attention to themselves and are forced to leave, it will be a hundred times harder for the Pykes to relay a message, should Maul contact them.

Maul needs him. If Savage can't help him, can't protect him—

“Hey,” Sinker says quietly, and his fingertips brush Savage’s knuckles. The touch is a ricochet of heat, drags Sinker’s mind into almost unsettling clarity for the seconds that they have skin contact, and Savage doesn’t react but he _wants_ to.

“What,” he asks curtly, keeping his eyes fixed ahead of them.

Sinker casts him a sideways look, tipping his head. Savage can read amusement on his face, but there's an edge like a blade right beneath that humor. “I wanted to ask—you're Force-sensitive, right? But how does that work with the Sith?”

Of all the questions Savage was expecting, that’s the very last. He pauses, trying to parse it, and frowns faintly. “The Force is the same whether you touch the Dark Side or not,” he says, more confused than wary. “It’s not…biological difference.”

Sinker makes a quiet sound, eyes following a pair of Togruta as they round a corner and disappear. “Not what I meant, sorry. I've seen what Jedi can do, but can Sith do the same?” He must see something on Savage’s face that Savage can't quite hide, because he casts him a quick, crooked smile. “I'm not asking so I can dump your body somewhere—I wouldn’t even if I could. But I'm pretty sure we’re going to get into _some_ kind of trouble, and I know how to fight with a Jedi. Never fought with a Sith before.”

Savage weighs that for a moment, considers potential answers, takes a breath. There's a part of him that simmers with frustration and irritation, that wants to lash out and shove Sinker against a wall and intimidate him out of ever asking that sort of thing again, but—

“I don’t know,” he says flatly, and there's a pause. Sinker looks at him for a moment, then turns his head again, keeping a portion of his attention trained behind them. He doesn’t say anything, and it prickles across Savage’s skin, makes him grit his teeth and set his jaw. That mind hasn’t shifted, hasn’t turned to any emotion but careful watchfulness again, but Savage thinks he’s on the verge. About to turn to fear, or _pity_ —

“Guess I should have expected that,” Sinker says, a touch of humor in his voice despite the way his mind is still sharp and cold and calculating. “From what Feral was saying, the Nightsisters aren’t exactly open to exploring other avenues of belief.”

Savage sets his jaw, and—Ventress is too close. The memory of her is too recent. It makes Savage’s skin crawl, and he’s covered, there's no skin she could reach even if she tried, but—

 _Dear heart_ , she said. The words ring in Savage’s head, even hours and lightyears later. They're like some sort of barbed stinger, wedged under his skin and ready to tear flesh if he tries to pull them out. He doesn’t want to think of her, doesn’t want to dwell on the Nightsisters and what Mother Talzin was trying to do. Control, again, and he _hates_ them, hates them with a rage that’s going to eat him alive—

A hand catches his wrist, just an edge of skin against his own, and there's a hard pull. Savage snarls, turns, grabs the offending person and shoves them up against the closest wall with a thud. Stone cracks, not from the weight of the body hitting it but with the force of Savage’s rage, and there's a hiss, a grab. Fingers lock around Savage’s, and it’s like getting hit by a blaster bolt, a sudden image of Feral laughing almost enough to knock Savage right off his feet. He wrenches back, a snarl in his throat, and all around them pieces of metal and stone shake.

It’s not enough. He’s still so _angry_ , and it’s like there's a green haze over everything, like he can't _breathe_ through the rage. He growls, feels something hit his shoulder half an instant before agony erupts. With a cry, he staggers, vision blurring as the blaster wound in his shoulder catches flame, but it’s easily ignorable. He shoves through it, pushes the pain down, and turns. Catches a hand as it comes towards him, wrenches, and hauls a body up against him. Human, and he doesn’t think, reaches for his jaw to break his neck and drop him—

A hand grabs one of his horns, jerks his head down. “ _Savage_!” Sinker says, loud enough to pierce the haze, and Savage freezes. He stares down at Sinker, at the hand he has wrapped around Sinker’s throat, and for an instant it’s not Sinker in front of him at all.

It’s Feral, held off the ground, choking as he clawed at Savage’s wrist.

“No,” Savage snarls, and shoves Sinker away. Stumbles back, running up hard against stone, and sinks to the ground, digging his nails into his temples and trying to drag up the will to fight the green light in his head. It’s a creeping, corrosive cloud, blotting out thoughts, dulling instinct, and he growls, low and rumbling and _desperate_. They won't take control of him. He won't _let_ them.

This is stronger than any other attempt, though. It’s as if the Nightsisters’ full attention is on him, strangling and overwhelming, and he can hardly think, can hardly see anything but the green.

With a thump, Sinker drops to his knees in front of Savage, and the curl of his hand around Savage’s is a shock that almost makes him lose his fight. “Savage,” he says, even, and Savage shuts his eyes, ducks his head and grinds his teeth.

“They're—trying again,” he gets out, and there's a low curse, a hesitation. An instant later hands cup Savage’s face, make him startle despite himself, and he raises his head again, looks at Sinker with something wary and furious in equal measure eating its way through his chest.

“Hey,” Sinker says, and there's nothing but concern in his mind, warm and steady. Something calm, still, like the clear water that sometimes collected in the swamps and reflected the sky, and Savage wants to bury himself in it, drown out the creeping green light. “Would more Feral help?”

A wounded sound jars out of Savage’s chest. He can't take seeing Feral right now. A moment ago he almost snapped Feral’s neck—

Not Feral. Sinker. It was Sinker.

“That’s a no, then,” Sinker says, and his hands are still cupping Savage’s face, holding him still. Savage _needs_ something to ground him, needs some kind of anchor, and he grabs Sinker’s wrists, doesn’t try to pull his hands away but just holds on, and Sinker makes a low, soothing sound and shifts closer. He’s practically in Savage’s lap, close enough that Savage can see the pulse in his throat, quicker than it should be, and—he’s warm. Savage can feel his body heat through his clothes in a way he was never able to through his armor, and it _shouldn’t_ matter, shouldn’t be anything in comparison to the Nightsisters’ magics.

It is, though. It’s something, and it’s not quite a tie but it’s something that Savage can cling to, can grab onto.

“Not Feral,” he manages, and Sinker grimaces a little, reaches up. The stroke of his fingers over Savage’s horns makes Savage shudder and duck his head, and it’s not _enough_. He can still feel Mother Talzin’s power, the way she’s eating away at him, trying to _control_ him, but—

“What do you need?” Sinker asks steadily, and when Savage meets his eyes there's still no alarm in him. “Distraction? I might be able to knock you out if you don’t mind a concussion. That seemed to work with Feral.”

Savage digs his fingers into Sinker’s wrists, not to hurt, just trying to hang on to some sense of himself. Skin contact helps. Feeling a mind that isn't corrupted, that the Nightsisters have no interest in touching, helps too. Savage hisses, but he’s too angry; his anger is giving them a foothold in his mind, and they made him, they want to _own_ him, they know just how to use him, and that’s only making him angrier. It’s a fight he’s losing; the slope down to their control is giving way, and he’s sliding, can't stop the fall.

He can't let them win, but fighting them has never worked.

“ _Leave_ ,” he gets out, and tries to pry his hands off of Sinker. “Go—I can't—”

“You can,” Sinker says, and it’s steady, perfectly certain to the point that Savage wants to _snarl_ at him for it, because he _can't_. “Even if you can't do it alone, you can still do it. I can help. Savage, look.” A gentle tug on Savage’s horns, like the caretakers used to do when Savage was small and misbehaving, and he says again, “Savage, look at me.”

There’s too much green, and the rage _eats_ at the inside of Savage’s chest, pure acid. He growls, tightening his grip on Sinker, and he _means_ to shove him away, to throw him, threaten him, make him run, but Sinker doesn’t move. He just watches Savage, wary but calm, and the feeling of his mind, like an eye in the storm, makes Savage furious. There are a hundred thousand ways Savage could kill him right now, instant and easy, and then Savage could simply stand up, leave, slaughter his way through the city and maybe _that_ would help the roiling rage inside of him.

“Not an order,” Sinker says, quiet but touched with a humor that’s like a ripple of stillness. “Just a request, right?”

Savage’s breath jars out of his lungs, as sharp as a blow. Not an order, he thinks, and tries to reach for that, tries to use that as a touchstone when everything else is sliding sideways. The opposite of the Nightsisters, who only give commands. He can—

With a harsh scrape of invisible thorns against his mind, the green light gets heavier. It seeps in through the cracks, settles over Savage’s thoughts like silt settling on the bottom of a pool. Savage can't help the sound that’s wrenched from his throat, the jerk he gives, and his hands slip from Sinker’s arms. He loses his grip, and the warmth of skin fades out in an instant, that green cloud rolling in to cover the places where it was. Savage breathes harsh magic and greedy victory, then rises.

It’s easier. It’s _clear_ , now. The rage is still bubbling up, still set at a boil, but it gives clarity, not confusion. This whole moon is metal and stone and twisted lives, and Savage can take it, reduce it to rubble, vent his fury without consequence. No one can stop him. Even _Maul_ can't stop him, when he’s truly angry, and he is, he is, he’s so angry that he can't remember ever being anything else.

“Savage,” Sinker says, but it doesn’t matter. Savage will kill him eventually anyway, whether he means to or not; he might as well simply do it now and spare himself what comes after.

There's a murmur, noise. Voices, loud in Savage’s head, and he turns, looks up the street. Green and black spark across his vision, and the woman there is _loud_. It makes Savage’s skin prickle, and he reaches for the lightsaber on his belt, the only plan in his mind removing the irritation. The woman is _talking_ , and she’s in the way, and Savage wants her dead so badly that he would tear through stone to make it true.

She’s carrying a child. A child, tiny, _helpless_ , like Feral was in Savage’s earliest memories. But Feral is dead, and Savage killed him, and there’s nothing left, nothing left at all.

“Savage!” Sinker says again, but red _burns_ to life in Savage’s grip and he turns, raises a hand. Sinker cries out as he’s hurled back, thrown into the wall of the closest building so hard that something cracks, and he drops, lands in a heap. There's a twinge, deep in Savage’s chest, but he can't focus on it, doesn’t care. Raising his lightsaber, he stalks up the road, to where the woman is _still talking_ , and raises it.

“Look out!” Sinker shouts, and the woman turns away from her companion, looks up. Her eyes go wide as Savage swings, and she’s wearing armor, carrying a weapon, but the baby is in her arms and all Savage can think of is the advantage of it. He brings the blade down, right at her head—

A blaster shot echoes, and in the same instant something hits Savage in the side, knocks all the air from his lungs. He staggers, vision swimming, but it steadies an instant later and he spins with a snarl. Sees Sinker, vibroblade in hand, a bare handful of feet away, and gets his blade up just a second too slow. Sinker slides beneath the blow, right into Savage’s feet, and the slash of that vibroblade cuts through cloth and deep into flesh. Savage _howls_ , kicking out, but Sinker rolls around it, twists to his feet, and brings his blaster up as he swings it like a club.

The hit to the head makes Savage’s vision go black for an instant, and behind his eyelids all he can see is green.

“Savage, don’t do this,” Sinker says, loud, as Savage’s vision slowly clears. He levers himself up, teeth bared, breathing hard, but still Sinker doesn’t move. He’s got his blaster up, finger on the trigger, and Savage can't see his face beneath the hood, but he can feel his mind, cool, touched with regret, but without reluctance. It almost gives Savage pause, but he still takes a step, heavy and limping, and twists his lightsaber between his hands, levels it. Growls, low and warning, and watches Sinker’s mouth twist with something like regret.

“Or do, that’s fine too,” Sinker says, light, and fires. Savage swats the shot away, brings the other end of the staff up, but Sinker is already gone, sliding beneath it. An elbow hits Savage in the ribs, a boot slams into the back of his knee on his good leg, and Savage snarls, swings. Sinker twists out of the way of the blade, then keeps retreating as Savage lunges for him, and he’s fast but Savage is faster, drives him up against the wall of the closest building with a shove of the Force and a surge of vicious fury as he swings for his head—

A shot hits Savage square in the back, and his vision explodes into white just as Sinker swings his blaster again, and then even the green light is gone. There’s just blackness, and Savage doesn’t even feel himself hit the ground.

“Kriff,” Sinker mutters, lowing his blaster. There’s blood on the butt of it, but—better Savage ends up with a concussion than murdering everyone he comes across. “Nice shot.”

The Mandalorian woman lowers her blaster, still clutching her baby to her chest. “Not like he’s hard to miss,” she says, and takes two careful steps closer, blaster pistol still aimed squarely at Savage. Before she can take another shot, Sinker ducks around, putting himself in front of Savage and slinging his blaster over his shoulder before he raises his hands.

“Sorry,” he says evenly, but doesn’t move even as her eyes narrow. “He wasn’t in control of himself. Killing him for what someone else made him do isn't going to help anything.”

There's a pause, careful and deliberate, and the woman lowers her weapon slightly. She’s dressed in armor, black and yellow, with a symbol like an owl’s face on the pauldron. Sinker doesn’t recognize it, but that’s not saying a lot; there are hundreds of Mandalorian clans, and it’s not like clones have much opportunity to learn about them all.

“He’s _with_ you?” the woman asks, and turns. She tips her head at the other woman with her, and the second woman nods, then steps back, raising her comm and murmuring something Sinker can't catch.

“Yeah,” Sinker says, which is true enough. “Sorry about that. Thought we could control it, but apparently something changed.”

Carefully, the woman resettles her child against her shoulder, gaze sliding from Sinker to Savage and back. “I’ll say,” she offers, a little dry, and Sinker gives her with rueful smile, even as he moves around to Savage’s side and crouches down. Savage is still breathing steadily, and his head is bleeding, and he now has _multiple_ blaster wounds, but—at least he’s out. Sinker can hope that it works like it did with Feral, and that Savage wakes up in control of himself again.

“Big for a Zabrak,” the woman says, crouching down on Savage’s other side. The second woman has the child, keeping to a safe distance as she watches, and she has a blaster as well, out and halfway to aimed, but Sinker can hardly blame them for that.

“I'm still trying to get him to tell me what they fed him as a kid,” Sinker jokes, and the woman snorts faintly, her eyes flickering to him again for a moment.

“You’re _Mando’ad_ ,” she says finally, and Sinker hesitates, wary. Weighs his response, his options, and then huffs.

“I think that depends on who you ask,” he says finally, “and where.”

The woman smiles, swift and rueful, and tips her head. “There's a lot of that these days,” she says, and offers Sinker a hand. “I'm Ursa.”

“Call me Sinker,” he answers, and clasps wrists with her, feeling the press of her vambrace and the curling pattern of paint there.

On dark brow rises, and Ursa repeats, “Sinker, then. A foundling?”

Sinker has no idea how to answer that. “Pretty sure my…grandfather was a Journeyman Protector,” he offers after a second. “He adopted my father, but…he wasn’t…”

Wasn’t a parent. Not the way Mandalorians think of it. Not to anyone but Boba, and Sinker’s had plenty of thoughts about whether that was even parenting or just Jango making sure he would leave a legacy.

Ursa’s expression hardens. “ _Dar’buir_ ,” she says, and it makes Sinker wince a little, no matter his feelings about Jango. There aren’t many worse things to call a person, for Mandalorians.

“Not _formally_ ,” he says, because for him to have disavowed Jango as his father, Jango would have had to have recognized that he _was_ a father, and that the clones weren’t just human-shaped droids.

Ursa’s expression says what she thinks about that, but she doesn’t say anything else about it, just inclines her head. “New to Concordia?”

“Yeah,” Sinker says a little ruefully. “Just landed. I wanted to find a place we could disappear.”

Ursa makes a low sound of amusement, reaching out and tipping the lightsaber out of Savage’s hand. Deliberately, before she can take it, Sinker picks it up and shoves it through his belt, then meets her eyes, silently daring her to make anything of it. She just snorts, rising to her feet, and turns to look up the street as a handful of Mandalorians in yellow-marked armor round the corner.

A little wary, Sinker rises as well, carefully palming his vibroblade. He doesn’t like being outnumbered here. By Mandalorians _especially_ —if one of them realizes what he is, or gets a look under his hood, he’s kriffed. Particularly kriffed, if he has to try to haul Savage away as well. They found the Pykes, but there hasn’t been any chance to find somewhere to hole up, and running through the streets of Concordia with two meters of unconscious Sith slung over his shoulder doesn’t exactly sound like Sinker’s version of a good time.

“Countess,” one of the Mandalorians says as he approaches, the second woman with him. She offers up the child, and Ursa takes the little girl with a smile, resettling her blanket and pulling it up over her head.

“Countess,” Sinker repeats, and it takes effort not to step back. There aren’t a lot of titles like that left among anyone but the New Mandalorians, but this group is wearing armor. Ursa would have killed Savage without hesitation. They’re not pacifists.

Ursa slants him a look, then tips her head. “Ursa Wren,” she says. “Countess of Clan Wren.”

Well. _Definitely_ not New Mandalorians, Sinker thinks wryly, but he nods in returns. “Sorry for the trouble, then, Countess. Excuse me.”

Ursa doesn’t move as Sinker takes two steps back, never quite letting her or the other Mandalorians out of his sight, and then crouches down to grab Savage’s arm. She just watches, thoughtful, for a long moment, and then says, “Irra, give him a hand. Sinker, is there a place you're going?”

There isn't a good answer to that, and Sinker hesitates even as a Togruta woman approaches. “No,” he finally says, and—he was honestly intending to find somewhere abandoned and just hunker down for a bit. It’s not like he has credits to pay for a room somewhere. Or like he would want to put other people in danger if Savage wakes up with the Nightsisters still in his head. “But I’ll figure something out.”

“I'm sure you will,” Ursa says, and Sinker can't quite tell if she means it or not. “But we have extra rooms. You're welcome to them.”

Sinker blinks, entirely caught off guard by the offer. “I don’t think your rooms can hold a Sith,” he says after a moment, and the Togruta Mandalorian stiffens, halfway through her reach for Savage.

Ursa doesn’t even blink. “Mandalorians are good at killing Force-users,” she says. “If it comes to that. You said he wasn’t in control of himself.”

It’s not a question, but Sinker still huffs out a breath of rueful agreement. “The Nightsisters,” he says, and Ursa grimaces.

“Come back with us,” she says, and it’s not an order. Sinker could turn around, pick Savage up, and walk away now, but—

“All right,” he says, and the Togruta woman helps him haul Savage up between them, limp and ridiculously heavy. Sinker staggers, feels a little better about it when she grunts, and Ursa makes a sound of amusement from where she’s watching.

“Good,” she says, then turns and says to one of her clan, “Tell Clan Saxon we’re postponing tomorrow’s meeting, due to unforeseen circumstances.”

The man nods, shifting back, and Ursa falls into step beside Sinker as they head back towards the exit of the mine. Her eyes sweep the road ahead of them, then slide back to Sinker, and she says, “Those bruises around your throat. This isn't the first time he’s lost control.”

“Maybe I'm just into that kind of thing,” Sinker retorts, but he tugs the cloak up higher around his neck regardless.

Ursa laughs at that, shifting her daughter to her other shoulder. “Maybe you are,” she says. “But you moved like you’d fought him before.”

Because Sinker’s sparred with Plo, and he knows how blasted _fast_ Force-users are. Because he faced Savage on Sekind, and the fact that he wasn’t killed then or now is a miracle, but—Sinker can also learn from his mistakes. And besides, circumstances are a little different now.

“I'm not about to kill him. Or let him kill me when someone else is in his head,” Sinker says, and it might even be true, more or less. Savage is still a Sith, but—they're in this boat together. Savage needs something, and there's something in Sinker’s chest that wants him to get it, the same way there was with Feral.

Ursa doesn’t answer. She just casts one more look at Sinker, then turns her eyes ahead again, towards the glow of the lights beyond the mineshaft.


	30. Chapter 30

“ _Oh_ ,” Padmé says, carefully turning the blaster over in her hands. “It’s _heavy_.”

Kicked back in his chair, one boot propped up on the table, Hondo chuckles, downing the rest of his wine in a long swallow. Instantly, Fox leans over to refill it, and Hondo waves a hand at him in cheerful thanks. “The Arkanians may be immoral scientists with no care for sentient life or anything beyond their research, but they certainly know their way around a weapon,” he says grandly, toasting Padmé with his cup. “She is my favorite. You have good taste, Senator.”

Padmé smiles at him, handing the heavy blaster pistol back. “I've overseen more than my share of investigations into the Arkanians,” she says. “I knew how loudly they could yell, not how good they were at designing weapons.”

Hondo laughs, taking another swig of wine, and this time it’s Padmé who leans forward to take the jug, topping off the glass sitting in front of her before she refills Hondo's. She’s not entirely sure how Maul keeps managing to switch hers out for an empty one, but she appreciates the help, and he seems pleased enough with the trick.

“Thank you, thank you,” Hondo says, and when Padmé picks up her glass, he grins, raising his towards her. “A toast! To your ex-husband, this time!”

Several of the pirates who are still mostly upright cheer, lifting their drinks as well, and Padmé snorts. “To my ex?” she asks, raising a brow, and Hondo beams.

“May he be eaten by something large and hungry with an aggressive digestive tract!” he says, and Padmé laughs, raising her own cup to tap it against Hondo's. She’s had plenty of practice at making it look like she’s drinking without actually swallowing any liquor, and she watches with some satisfaction as Hondo downs his whole drink, wavering a little in his seat. Fox hasn’t touched anything, and Maul, slouched sideways in one of the fancier chairs set out, is still nursing his first, so the sobriety level of their group isn't something she has to worry about. Just Hondo's, and judging by the looseness of his gestures and the way he keeps losing the thread of the conversation, Padmé is certain it won't be much longer.

“Thank you, Hondo,” Padmé says demurely, taking a sip and holding his eyes. “This is a lovely celebration for my divorce.”

Hondo laughs, dropping his second boot on the table and slouching back in his chair. “My dear senator, I am _delighted_ that you would allow us to celebrate with you. It is an honor.”

Skragg leans in, fumbling for the jug, and Hondo turns towards him, distracted. Before Padmé can offer a response, Maul catches her gaze from across the table, eyes narrowed, and Padmé pauses, a little surprised. She raises a brow, and Maul smiles thinly, gaze flickering past Padmé and towards the other arm of port. Not in the direction of their ship, thankfully, and Padmé inclines her head to show she got the message. Something is happening, or something is coming, and Anakin had more than enough bad feelings about things even if he rarely listened to them as thoroughly as he should have.

“Another toast,” she says, and when Hondo glances back towards her, she smiles, lifting her cup. “To new business partners, and a bright future working together.”

Hondo laughs delightedly, raising his cup. “To partners!” he says loudly, and downs the cup. Padmé’s is mysteriously empty again, so she pretends to throw hers back as well, and Hondo gives a pleased groan, sliding a little lower in his chair. “A good night,” he says, tipping his hat down. “A good night, Senator.”

“It is,” Padmé agrees, and leans in, touching his knee and smiling up at him. “I'm going to…find something a little more comfortable. If you don’t mind.”

Hondo waves his cup at her in easy dismissal, and his smile is lecherous. “As long as you let me see you _comfortable_ , Senator,” he says, “my clothing stores are yours as well.”

“Thank you.” Padmé rises to her feet, pretends to stagger, catches herself on the table. In a moment, Fox is right beside her, helping her to her feet, and she leans into him, catches her breath. “Oh, trooper, thank you. If you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Fox says, and there's amusement in his face, only just beneath the surface. He guides her away from the table, then into the darkness of the early morning, towards where Hondo's ship is sitting. Maul stays where he is, watching them go, but Padmé has no doubt that he’ll follow in a moment, and more subtly than she can manage with so much of Hondo's attention on her.

“Clear,” Fox murmurs as they approach the ramp, and Padmé deftly turns, ducks around the wing of the ship and into the trees, and abandons the show, picking up her pace as they head down the linked islands of the ports.

“Finally,” Padmé says, wry. “I forgot what a tolerance Weequay have.” She skirts another ship, and theirs is just beyond it, dark and still. Before she can make for it, though, Fox catches her arm, pulling her up short, and makes a low sound of warning.

“Guards,” he says, and Padmé pauses, looking more closely. She spots the pair of Weequay a moment later, sprawled out on the ship’s ramp and sharing a drink, and rolls her eyes.

“You're counting them?” she asks.

“A gross overestimation,” Maul agrees, from about three centimeters behind her. Padmé startles, half-turns, and Maul smirks at her, clearly pleased with himself. Rolling her eyes, Padmé reaches out and lightly shoves his shoulder, the way she would do to Bail if he surprised her, and turns forward again, considering.

“Can you mind-trick them?” she asks, weighing their options.

Maul is silent for a long moment, so long that Padmé glances back to find him frowning, watching her like she’s a puzzle. When she gives him a curious look, though, he deliberately looks away and focuses on the pirates.

“Choking them to death would be easier,” he says, and raises a hand—

Padmé catches his wrist, pulling it back down. “And set Hondo on our trail as well as the Separatists, or whoever he called to come capture us,” she reminds him. Maul scowls, but lets her move him, and Padmé turns, touches her blaster, and says, “They won't expect me to—”

With a quiet snort, Fox steps around both of them, vaulting over a line of bushes to get to the path that runs past their stand of trees. A little startled, Padmé lets go of Maul, slipping forward and keeping low as she shadows him, and with a sound of indignation Maul follows closely. Fox doesn’t pay any attention to either of them, just walks right up to the bottom of the ramp as the two guards scramble to their feet.

“Sorry,” Fox says, sounding put-upon and just a little frustrated. “Senator wants some of her jewels to show off to your captain.”

He is, Padmé notes with amusement, a _lot_ better at lying than Captain Rex.

One of the guards laughs, hand dropping from her blaster. “You should quit as errand-boy and get another job, trooper,” she tells him, but waves him past.

“Be a pirate!” the other guard offers, grinning gap-toothed and wide. His partner laughs, clearly more than a little tipsy, and reaches for the bottle—

The butt of Fox’s stolen blaster hits the woman in the temple, even as Fox locks his arm around the man’s neck and drags him down. He struggles, wheezing, clawing at Fox’s arm, but Fox doesn’t let up, holds him for several long moments as his struggles start to slow.

“ _That_ ,” Maul says, offended, “was _my_ idea.”

“Nobody died, so it’s mine,” Fox retorts, and when the guard goes limp, he checks the man, then hauls him to the side and dumps him over the edge of the ramp. With a distasteful expression, Maul flicks his fingers, sending the woman skidding after him, and Padmé hurries up the ramp towards the pilot’s seat, throwing herself into it and starting the takeoff sequence.

“You felt something?” she asks Maul over her shoulder, and he stalks in, only to pause as Fox beats him to the copilot’s seat. Then, deliberately, he leans against the back of Padmé’s, defiant and daring Fox or Padmé to protest.

“Yes,” he says smoothly. “A ship entered the atmosphere, and it landed without trouble or reaction from the pirates. Given that Ohnaka had his people watching the systems, I assume it was a ship they were expecting.”

“My enemies or your enemies,” Padmé says with rueful amusement, giving him a crooked smile as the engines rumble to life and the ramp closes. She lifts off, then checks the navigation system. “Do I need to aim for Ord Radama to find the path through the Caldera, or can I put us right outside of the nebula itself?”

Maul leans forward between the seats, entering in a few numbers and then frowning at the outcome. “Ord Radama,” he says after a moment. “The calculations need to be precise or the ship will shake itself apart on the hyperspatial breakwater of the nebula. This ship hardly seems up to the task.”

“The ship is fine,” Fox says, something close to impatient, and pulls up the scanners. He studies the readout for a moment, then offers, “I don’t know the signal they’re broadcasting, but I think it’s Separatist.”

Padmé doesn’t let her prickle of fear show. “Have they noticed us?”

“Not yet.” Fox glances up, and says without expression, “I guess you weren’t charming enough to keep Ohnaka from betraying us.”

“I get the feeling no one is that charming,” Padmé counters, and Fox snorts, allowing that. A little pleased, Padmé checks the controls, waits the handful of seconds left for them to get far enough away from the planet, and drags the lever down to throw them into hyperspace. “It’s not too much farther to Ord Radama. Even if the worst happens, we can be through the Caldera in a few hours.”

Maul's fingers tighten in the fabric of the chair, anger flickering across his features. It’s a low, deep-seated sort of thing, nothing like Anakin's volcanic eruptions of rage that flare up and then disappear, leaving Padmé feeling off-balance and rather like _she’s_ the one going crazy each time. And—more manageable, at least, for all that Maul is supposed to be her enemy.

He’s dangerous, and there's never been a question about that, but at the same time he’s not _unreasonable_. Padmé appreciates that rather more than she should.

“If the Nightsisters truly have turned their attention to Savage and Feral,” he says, low, “I do not doubt they will overwhelm Savage at least very shortly. Their power is so deeply embedded in him that he will have little chance to resist.”

The words are dispassionate, flat, but Padmé still glances up at his face. The tattoos and the shadows there make it hard to read his expression, but even so Padmé thinks she can read something there, an edge of an emotion that’s tense and tight but isn't quite anger. And—she could say something about Maul's sharp words to Savage about his temper, or about how Maul is still glossing over the danger to Feral, but—

She’s not cruel. She won't be.

Reaching up, Padmé lays her fingers over Maul's, turns in her seat to look at him more directly. “Maybe we can find something on Korriban to help them, too,” she offers. “If the Nightsisters’ magic can be traced back to Darth Andeddu, maybe there's a way to block them, or remove them completely, that will help Savage and Feral.”

Maul stares down at her fingers resting over his, eyes narrowed but not hostile, like he doesn’t know what to do with the gesture. Then, deliberately, he slides his hand away, shaking her off. “Disciples of Darth Andeddu were the ones to teach the Nightsisters their skills, long ago,” he says. “From the tales, however, he lived half-mad with paranoia, and I find myself doubtful he taught them everything he knew. There may be secrets in his keep that the Nightsisters have never dreamed of.”

It’s a long way to say _yes, you're right_ , and leaves out all of those words, but Padmé’s used to that sort of thing. There are a hundred senators she can think of off the top of her head who are worse, even. “Good,” she says, and then asks, “Would the Jedi’s files on Korriban be helpful?”

Maul cocks his head, all traces of vulnerability banished beneath a wash of dark humor and interest. “Little queen, are you telling me you can _access_ the Jedi’s files on Korriban?”

“My former husband was a Jedi,” Padmé says evenly, and Maul blinks at her once, slow.

“Your lie to Hondo—” he starts, then laughs, low and dark, and leans in. “A Jedi broke his oath for you? You married a _Jedi_? Was it Kenobi—”

Padmé rolls her eyes, because she already had to endure all of Sabé’s teasing about falling for Anakin rather than Obi-Wan. Sabé wasn’t impressed by her taste, and in hindsight, Padmé is willing to admit that she may have had a point. “It was Anakin,” she says, and Maul makes an unimpressed sound.

“How _boring_ ,” he says, and leans against Fox’s chair. Fox eyes him like he’s judging biting distance, but doesn’t try to shift away. “And predictable. I would have thought you a woman of taste, Senator.”

“I divorced him, didn’t I?” Padmé counters, and when Fox gives her a look that’s touched with concern, she offers him a crooked smile. It stings, but coming to terms with her own actions—and her lack of action—hurts the most. Padmé let things pass that she never should have, and now some of that blood is on her hands, too. She _let_ herself become someone she never wanted to be, because she was in love, and—now she’s always going to have to be careful. She’s never going to be able to allow herself to get swept up in thrilling, epic romances again, because she _knows_ her own blind spots, and—

It’s not a great loss, in the vastness of the universe. But Padmé resents Anakin for it more than she does for his control, for his self-centeredness, his emotional instability, his unwillingness to ever listen to her.

Anakin's murder of the Tusken Raiders is…something so far beyond the scope of her grievances that she doesn’t even know how to approach it, but. The Jedi might, if she goes to them. Fox will help, and that’s a comfort, but Padmé still can't help the curling, creeping sense of fear and shame that’s been present since the moment Anakin confessed what he did and she _accepted_ it.

“I suppose,” Maul says, though he still pulls a face that makes Padmé roll her eyes at him again. "I had thought Skywalker’s fondness for you was…a dalliance. He certainly always seemed more focused on Kenobi.”

“I think he has a lot of issues regarding Obi-Wan that he needs to work out,” Padmé says as diplomatically as she can, because ragging on Anakin is one thing, but—Obi-Wan doesn’t deserve that. He’s always tried his best where Anakin is concerned, even when Anakin has accused him of otherwise.

That probably should have been one of the first warning flags, Padmé thinks ruefully.

Maul eyes her narrowly for a moment, like he’s waiting for the obvious follow-up, but Padmé refuses to give it to him. Instead, she asks Fox, “Do you know if there's a clone battalion on Ord Radama? We could replace your armor—”

Fox shakes his head, settling back in his chair and curling his fingers into the sleeve of his new coat. “This is fine,” he says, then pauses. Smiles, a little crooked, and offers, “I stole my first set of clothes from pirates. Not too bad.”

Padmé chuckles, though it turns in her chest a little, remembering how little the clones have. How little they’ve been given, even when they fight and die for the Republic. “And you're starting off with high fashion,” she says. “This designer supplies some of the royal court on Naboo.”

Fox snorts, though he looks a little pleased with himself as he runs his fingers over bright buttons. “At least I remembered to put a shirt under my coat,” he says, pointed.

With a scoff, Maul folds his arms over his chest, which is admittedly rather bare. Padmé is certain that the overshirt he picked is meant to have something beneath it, but he hadn’t accepted her suggestions, and Padmé supposes he knows what he likes. It’s certainly in line with how she’s seen him dressed previously. “I will acquire new robes shortly,” he says. “However, this is sufficient in the meantime.”

“Less blood,” Padmé allows, hiding her smile. She checks the hyperdrive one more time, then settles back, pulling her legs up under herself in the chair. It has the thrill of something forbidden; this isn't a late-night conversation, only her and Fox conscious. Propriety and training says sit up straight, hold herself carefully, don’t let anyone see a weakness, but—

Padmé finds that she rather doesn’t care right now.

“What is Korriban like?” she asks, looking up at Maul. “What do we need to prepare for?”

For a long moment, Maul doesn’t answer, watching her narrowly. Then, finally, he says softly, “Everything. Every bit of darkness in the galaxy given voice. Korriban is the one place my Master fears, and I will use it to crush him.”

Padmé smiles, perfectly amiable. “Good,” she says, and means it. “But I meant the climate, or dangerous wildlife, or current occupants.”

Maul pauses, like he’s not entirely sure how to respond to that, and Fox huffs. “There’ve been rumors that the Commerce Guild has set up there, but nothing confirmed,” he says.

Maul makes a derisive sound. “Whatever they seek, I have no doubt that the ghosts of the Sith are making them pay for it in blood. Korriban has been steeped in darkness for millennia. It is a cold, dry world with no mercy for the weak, and it has stood as a graveyard for the Sith since Revan’s empire fell.”

“Fantastic,” Fox mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Padmé doesn’t feel all that much more confident, but—having Maul with them is likely the best they could hope for. “If your Master fears it, we’ll be able to find something to stop him there,” she says, and there's a weight of certainty on her shoulders that’s a little surprising, but—it feels right. _This_ feels right.

Maul slants her an odd look, something unreadable, and sinks down, settling on the floor with his back braced against Fox’s chair. “Many tomb-robbers have met their end on Korriban,” he says, low. “But the planet has served the Sith for almost seven thousand years, and millions of Sith Lords have risen and fallen and been buried in its red earth. Even before them, the pureblood Sith ruled with blood and steel, massacring their own people to claim the right to reign. There are more weapons waiting there than we could ever hope to use, and weapons that Sidious has never thought to plan for. I have no doubt we will find what we need, even if Darth Andeddu’s tomb remains out of reach.”

And only a Sith would think to go there looking for a weapon. Padmé strokes her fingers over the hem of the bright red coat Fox found her, then breathes out.

“Without the Sith Lord, the war is going to end,” she says, and it still feels impossible to believe, a goal the Jedi have been trying to reach since the invasion of Naboo, but—the Senate has been holding them back, and the war has stretched them so thin that they can hardly even function. Someone needs to find him before he can gain any more power, and if Maul is willing to help, Padmé will seize the opportunity with both hands. A deal with a criminal and a murderer, maybe, but—

Well. Padmé was married to a murderer. She can deal with Maul, particularly when she has Fox with her, and when Maul seems entirely willing to join them for his own reasons.

“The Sith will never be stamped out,” Maul says, and he tips his head back, horns scraping across the frame of the chair. He’s smiling, thin and dangerous. “The Jedi have tried many, many times, but still we rise. The Force is with us always.”

Padmé pauses, and it’s something close to striking to hear Maul say it like that, when Padmé has only ever heard Jedi use that phrasing. But—it makes sense that the Sith would think they have just as much of a connection to the Force as the Jedi, and that they would believe they were in the right. Most people do, Padmé knows, regardless of how other people see them.

“Maybe the Sith won't, but the war will,” Fox says unexpectedly, and when Padmé looks over at him, he’s watching her. Holds her gaze, one long moment, before he turns back to the readouts on the console. “The Jedi and Sith can fight all they want. As long as the Republic isn't tearing itself apart, we’ve got a chance to at least survive.”

Maul's eyes narrow, and he regards Fox closely for a moment. “Your loyalty is to the Jedi,” he says carefully, testing.

Fox aims an unimpressed look over the side of his chair. “The Coruscant Guard doesn’t have a Jedi general. We figure things out. Still loyal, but our war zone’s different.”

“It will give us a chance to change things, if we can end the war,” Padmé says. “The Senate is eating itself, and it’s full of corruption, and people don’t _care_. If we can stop the fighting, and bring the Separatists back into the Republic, it will give us the best possible reason to change and reform. The Senate _needs_ that. This war has been terrible, but at the very least it’s shown us the cracks we need to repair, and the issues we need to address.”

Maul's eyes glow in the low light, yellow-gold and full of something Padmé can't read. “For a queen who tries to play the peacemaker, you are more than willing to default to force,” he says lazily.

“Aggressive negotiations,” Padmé counters, and Maul snorts, closing his eyes.

“After Korriban, we find Savage and Feral,” he says. “My brothers’ strengths will give me the necessary edge to face my former Master, and you have a deal to fulfil, little queen.”

“My name is _Padmé_.” When Maul opens his eyes again, Padmé holds his gaze, not quite a challenge, but—maybe something like a dare. “Assuming you can remember it.”

Maul looks entirely unimpressed by that, and he closes his eyes again, clearly ignoring her. Padmé doesn’t pull a face at him, because she’s more composed than that, but the urge is certainly there, and whatever expression she’s wearing makes Fox chuckle.

“From the look of it, Hondo really did have his men resupply us,” he offers. “We should have enough food, at least, and fuel levels are fine. And if we’re heading to Korriban, the odds of someone guessing that and trying to follow are slim.”

Unless the Nightsisters can track Maul somehow, Padmé thinks, but she keeps the idea to herself, not sure of the merits of it. “Now we just have to survive a Sith planet,” she says ruefully, and Fox snorts in agreement.

“You should get some sleep,” he tells Padmé. “The bunk’s free now.”

Padmé doesn’t want to sleep, not when the Nightsisters could attack Maul again at any moment, but—it will be hours to Ord Radama, and then more from the Caldera to Korriban, and she hasn’t slept more than an hour since Maul captured them in Sekind. Nodding, she rises, and reaches out to touch Fox’s shoulder. “You should sleep, too,” she says softly. “All of us should. We can take shifts.”

“Well, we definitely won't all fit on the bunk,” Fox says dryly. “Not unless we all sleep on top of each other.” He pauses, considering, and then offers, “I’ll wake you up in four hours.”

Padmé nods, more than willing to agree to that. “All right. Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Fox says, and he turns slightly in his seat, watches her leave like something’s going to jump her in the handful of meters between the cockpit and the bunk.

She can feel Maul's eyes on her, too, right up until the door of the bunkroom slides shut between them, and she doesn’t quite know how to take it.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~totally forgot it was Saturday, my bad.~~

“Here,” Agen says, close enough to make Feral startle, and he raises his head quickly, blinking at the piece of jerky held out to him. When he glances up at Agen's face, though, Agen simply inclines his head, and Feral carefully reaches out and takes it.

“Thank you,” he says, a little surprised, and Agen sinks down to sit beside him, crossing his legs beneath himself.

“Protein rations are sufficient, but Zabraks aren’t meant to subsist on them,” Agen says. “Jerky provides a similar amount of protein for the weight, and I've fount my body functions better when I have it.”

“We dry most of our meat on Dathomir,” Feral says, and takes a bite, making a sound of surprise as a burst of spice floods his mouth. It’s familiar, very like how a Nightbrother would season their food, and he takes another bite, then another, chewing quickly. “ _Thank_ you,” he gets out, and swallows quickly, then takes the second piece Agen offers without hesitation.

Agen inclines his head, and he isn't smiling, but his presence feels…light. “I have more than enough,” he says. “You're welcome to my stock.”

Something turns in Feral’s chest, and he chews his next bite more slowly, trying to come up with some sort of response beyond another thank you that doesn’t convey nearly enough. “I…appreciate it,” he offers, and looks up at Agen, who’s watching him calmly. “It’s…the protein rations are…”

“Bland,” Agen suggests, amused, when Feral struggles to find a polite way to say it. Relieved, Feral nods, and Agen makes a sound of quiet amusement. “Commander Fil is always surprised that I don’t object to their flavor, but…”

“They don’t _have_ flavor,” Feral finishes for him, glad he’s not the only one who feels that way.

“None that is discernable to a Zabrak,” Agen agrees. “Of course, Fil has tried my jerky, and he still hasn’t forgiven me. Apparently it’s too hot even for a Mandalorian.”

Feral laughs a little. He saw one of Maul's business partners try traditional Iridonian food once, and then promptly excuse himself, so red in the face it looked like he was about to start crying. Maul had eaten the remainder of the meal without ever breaking eye contact, lazily smug and superior the whole time, and Feral, playing lookout in the rafters of the restaurant, had nearly suffocated while he tried to contain his laughter.

“This tastes like something one of the Nightbrothers would have made,” he says, and takes the last bite, chewing more slowly this time, so he can enjoy it. It’s _bright_ , just acidic enough to balance the heat, and if he takes his time he can pick out the familiar spices, like the bright pink seeds that grow around the edges of the swamps. Feral used to pick them with Savage, lugging home baskets spilling over as they picked their way around the deep parts of the swamp, mouths numb from stolen handfuls.

“The Zabraks who left Iridonia for Dathomir brought the same spices with them,” Agen says, quiet, and his hands are gentle as he slides a small bag of jerky into Feral’s sash. “It is an old connection, but one of the clearest of the many I found in my time there. And a comfort, when you miss a place you only just escaped and shouldn’t want to return to.”

Feral pauses, and that small pouch, that glancing touch, so simple and unafraid—it seems like it means a lot more than it should. “You’re—really willing to help,” he says, before he can think better of it. “And be _nice._ Even—even with what I was—”

Agen's mouth curves, and it’s a soft thing, not laughter at Feral’s expense. He reaches out, and a knuckle just brushes one of the sweeps of ink beneath Feral’s eye, following the curve of it up his cheekbone. “What you were is not what you are,” he says, and it’s calm, plain. “Restitution must be made, but at the same time, you have changed yourself, remade parts of yourself in order to protect what is important. That is to be admired.”

Feral swallows around the lump in his throat, brushing the last dusting of spice powder off of his fingers and then knotting them in his lap. There's a small part of him that wonders if Agen can even understand, given how the Nightbrother village was, and all the differences between the Nightbrothers and the Jedi. But—maybe a part of him _wants_ Agen to understand. He’s explained himself to Wolffe, to Sinker, to Plo, but—that was when he was still making excuses, following his brothers’ steps.

“Savage and I were never apart,” he says quietly, and looks up, holding Agen's dark, patient gaze. “When—when we were growing up. He’s five years older, and—full siblings aren’t common. Most of the Nightsisters kill their partners after they’ve bedded them, so—the fact that we were full siblings—Savage raised me, even though he wasn’t much older. But after—after Mother Talzin brought me back, I didn’t…”

Agen reaches out, offering Feral a hand, upturned. Glancing at his face, Feral takes a breath and slides his own over it, gripping tightly, and Agen pulls him sideways, right up against the wall beside him. They're so close they're touching, and Agen is _warm_. Feral closes his eyes in relief, just trying to breathe evenly, and leans into the solid breadth of him, lean but muscular.

“You followed Maul because you had always followed Savage, and he had gone after Maul already,” Agen says quietly. “It was your only choice.”

Feral hesitates, but shakes his head. “I could have stayed in the Nightsisters’ temple,” he says quietly. “If I didn’t want to train with Maul. Mother Talzin—she wants her bloodline to continue, and Savage’s partners didn’t—so I was the other option.”

His stomach turns at the thought, because he saw how Savage reacted to getting picked. Being Mother Talzin’s sons meant he likely wouldn’t have been killed after a Nightsister finished with him, but—

Agen rumbles, low, and leans down, touching their horns together. “It was your only choice,” he says again, and Feral closes his eyes, a shudder working its way through him. He grabs for Agen before he can help himself, clutching at rough tunics, and Agen doesn’t even flinch. He just leans into Feral in return, and he’s so warm that Feral just wants to curl up next to him and sleep for a month straight.

“Your horns are different. Different than any Nightbrother’s horns,” he says, grasping for the change of subject, and Agen allows it readily, easily.

“Yes,” he says, and when Feral pulls back a little, he ducks his head. It’s an invitation, and Feral feels a whisper of something like a thrill as he takes it, reaches up and smooths his fingertips across the long horns crowning Agen's head. They're hard, slick-smooth except for the dotted tattoos that run up them, and tipped with blunted points, and between them are smaller, sharper horns that run down between the large horns, a pattern like nestled triangles.

“From what I saw on Dathomir,” Agen says softly, “the Nightbrothers have very little new blood that enters the tribe, and when a Nightsister does find a male from outside, they pick one that is similar, so your horn patterns have very subtle variations. Among the Zabraks of Iridonia, there is far more variety.”

“Does your family all have horns like this?” Feral asks, fascinated. When he rubs at the base of one, like he would with Savage, Agen hums and leans into it.

“I am not sure,” he says. “I was a foundling, left in the mountains because I was Force-sensitive. The Jedi found me before I could die of exposure, and took me back to the Temple. I returned to Iridonia with my Master, when I was a teenager, to receive my tattoos, but I never found any information on my family, and seeking them out seems pointless.”

“Oh,” Feral says, and it turns in his stomach, that someone like Agen could have simply died as a child. That if one thing had gone differently, he wouldn’t be sitting here at all. “I—people _do_ that?”

Agen inclines his head, though he doesn’t pull away from Feral’s hand. “The vast majority of the galaxy is unkind to Force-sensitives,” he says gravely. “Children who can do strange things are rarely welcome. The Order takes what children it can find, but the galaxy is very large, and our Order is small.”

Feral swallows, and, feeling bold, he lets his fingers slide down the tattoos running up Agen's brow, following the sweep of them over his sharp cheekbones. “The Jedi were always the enemy in the stories we were told,” he confesses. “But…I always wanted them to come and kill the Nightsisters and take us away.”

Agen catches his fingers, squeezes lightly, and the rumble of his purr is quiet, but blunts the edges of Feral’s anxiety like nothing else has in years. “Would that the Order could,” he says softly, and Feral’s breath hitches a little. He can't help reaching out, and Agen half-turns, shifts, bringing one knee up to give Feral room. And—Feral hasn’t curled up with _anyone_ but Wolffe since Savage was taken, and that was…tense. This is just comfort, offered by another Zabrak who knows the meaning of it, and Feral _wants_. He pulls at Agen, who huffs in amusement but moves with him easily, and Feral curls into him, arms locked together, his head on Agen's shoulder.

“I will look at that mark in the morning,” Agen promises quietly, reaching up to shift Feral just a little, and Feral lets him, tucks his nose into pale tunics like he’s a child clinging to Savage after a nightmare again. Agen drapes his cloak over both of them, and Feral lets out his own rumble, low and soft, and Agen relaxes a little.

“They try to—take control of me sometimes,” Feral admits, almost soundless, but Agen's fingers stroke his shoulder, and the unwavering attention makes it a little easier to say, “You have to knock me out if they do.”

“I will,” Agen says calmly, and—it’s just _good_ , to have someone who Feral knows can contain him if it comes to that, who isn't someone Feral can kill. Agen is a Zabrak, and more than that, he’s a Jedi. He already beat Feral once, in a handful of seconds, and Feral is _glad_. He won't be a risk to Wolffe with Agen here, won't put any of the clones in danger, or hurt them like he did Sinker and Wolffe.

“Thank you,” Feral whispers, and Agen tips his head, resting their horns together, and doesn’t move.

Wolffe feels mildly better about where they're camped after scouting the perimeter. It’s not like he doubts Fil or Banks, or their Jedi, but seeing the watch, the patrols, the equipment they’ve managed to set up in the cave system goes a long way towards easing his mind. There's still an edge of paranoia, because Ventress has never been stopped by basic security measures, and there's every chance that she’s following them somehow, but for now, it’s enough to let Wolffe ease back from high alert.

“Satisfied?” Fil asks, right at his elbow as they make their way back through the twisting, curving tunnels. The corridor rises and falls steeply, and it’s an aggravating amount of effort to get back to where they were, but Wolffe’s certain that any droids trying to catch them unaware will make a fair amount of noise in the process, so at least there's that.

“What, that you remember how to set up a perimeter?” Wolffe asks. “Mostly.”

Fil scoffs and shoves him, and of course Wolffe is going to shove back, but harder, and when Fil tries to hit him Wolffe just ducks it, lunges, and body-slams him straight into the wall, because he can.

“What was _that_?” he demands as Fil squawks and struggles. “Were you trying to pat me on the head, _mir’osik_?”

“I was _trying_ to knock your teeth in,” Fil complains, squirming. “Kriff, Wolffe, get _off_.”

Wolffe snorts, but pulls back, shoving Fil's head down as he does. “No wonder you lost your bucket,” he says, and the gut-wrenching lurch of realizing what was buried in the river is never going to go away, but the way Fil slants him an annoyed look helps patch over the raw edges. “You're forgetting everything you ever learned from Alpha-17 now that you’ve got a general like Kolar to watch your back.”

Fil thumps him in the shoulder, but his smile is quick and fond and a little awed. “He’s a kriffing _great_ general, shut your mouth. And I'm backing him up just fine.”

Wolffe snorts, skeptical, and shoves back when Fil tries to elbow him. It drags an offended noise from Fil, and he says, “What about _you_? You're running around with a _Sith_.”

“Not a Sith anymore,” Wolffe counters, because he’s not about to let that stand. Hearing Feral say it outright made it a little hard to breathe, like a kick in the chest, and Wolffe can't quite figure out why. “And if you're going to harp on that, remember _you_ left that Sith alone with your general.”

“General Swan’s there, and Banks,” Fil says, unbothered. “Besides, General Kolar can handle himself against one Sith, _and_ your Sith doesn’t exactly look like he eats babies.”

“Not a Sith,” Wolffe says, pointed, but the thought is…almost jarring. It’s been a week since they tossed Feral in the brig, and in that amount of time, he’s gone from an enemy to…well. Wolffe isn't quite sure how he’s supposed to categorize Darth Maul's little brother, but enemy doesn’t fit anymore.

It seems almost ridiculous that Wolffe once sat outside his cell with both hands on a blaster, so sure Feral was about to break out and murder them all that he couldn’t even close his eyes without seeing it.

There's a moment of silence as they trudge up to the very top of a steep rise, ducking beneath the sharp points of a stalactite to start down the other side, and then Fil sighs, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “You're all right?” he asks without looking at Wolffe. “Having to leave General Koon…”

“The general is fine,” Wolffe says, and believes it. Plo is one of the best, and Ventress was already on the retreat from him. Getting Savage, Maul, and Feral out of the way cut his opponents down to one, and one-on-one Plo is always going to win. “Feral needs to get that mark off his throat so I can stop having to tranq him like a pissy nexu.”

Fil snorts, splashing through a wide, shallow stream that cuts across the bottom of the slope. There's another hill on the other side, the tunnel going almost vertically, but there are a set of narrow steps carved into the stone, and he shoulders his blaster and pulls himself up them. “Better you than me, _vod_. Least I'm just breathing toxic dust. Sith are above my paygrade.”

“We don’t even _get_ paid,” Wolffe says, annoyed. Feral _isn't_ a Sith anymore, but clearly Fil isn't listening to him.

“Exactly.” Fil casts him a smirk, vaulting a narrow crevasse and landing lightly on the easier slope on the other side. Wolffe debates chucking his helmet at him, because that smug look is clearly an invitation to do violence, but knowing Fil he’d _accidentally_ lose it down the chasm, so Wolffe doesn’t bother. He pulls himself up the last few feet and makes the jump as well, and when he straightens Fil is watching him closely.

“ _What_?” Wolffe demands, and Fil snorts softly, turning and taking one of the branching tunnels where it heads deeper into the cliff.

“You're usually the first one to try and end an enemy,” he says over his shoulder. “I'm just a little surprised.”

Wolffe opens his mouth to tell him where his surprise can go, then pauses. The back of his neck is prickling, and he turns sharply, looking up the tunnel. The bends and drops mean he can't see more than a few meters, though, and he tightens his grip on his blaster, not sure what he’s feeling beyond unsettled.

“Wolffe?” Fil asks sharply, and the humor and teasing are gone; he steps up, shoulder to shoulder with Wolffe, blaster halfway up as he scans the tunnel as well.

“Thought I heard something,” Wolffe says curtly, because that’s close enough. He frowns, unmoving, almost holding his breath as he listens, but if there's anything moving now, he can't hear it.

“Droid patrols pass overhead sometimes,” Fil says, though he hasn’t relaxed at all. “Sometimes if they’ve got the super battle droids with them we can hear it down here.”

“Maybe.” It wasn’t a droid; Wolffe knows what those sound like, in any circumstance. They just checked the perimeter, though, and Wolffe saw for himself how ready all the guards were. Fil's troops are used to moving fast and hitting hard in dangerous territory, then disappearing again. They know what they're doing.

But—

“We should get back to the generals,” he says, and at least half of the urge is the memory of Feral with poison-green eyes and no emotion in his face. Wolffe has no idea if other people will sense the Nightsisters’ magic, but if that’s what that was, if it means Feral is about to end up controlled again, Wolffe needs to be there. General Swan doesn’t kill, but—Kolar might, if he thinks Feral is a danger to his men.

“Sure,” Fil says, and he backs up a few feet, still keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. Wolffe’s glad not _all_ of Alpha's lessons were wasted. “We’re almost there, anyway.”

It should be a comfort, but it’s not. If someone _did_ manage to get into the caves, and they managed to get this close to the generals without the Jedi or any other clones noticing, it’s a bad sign. Wolffe grimaces, but nods, and jerks his head at Fil to get him moving. Fil doesn’t hesitate, just does it, ducking down another corridor and sweeping it quickly as Wolffe backs in after him, blaster at the ready.

There's still nothing. No movement, no sound, and Wolffe has to remind himself to breathe.

“Kriff,” Fil mutters, and straightens as Wolffe does. “I’ll tell General Swan. She’s good at sensing when people are nearby. Maybe she can spot something.”

Wolffe doesn’t like it, but he’ll take it. With a curt nod, he falls in with Fil again, quickening his pace a little, and Fil keeps up easily, clearly just as ready to get back to the generals. “Any problems so far?”

“Not when we’re in the tunnels,” Fil says. “Outside? Sure. Camp’s been secure, though.”

Wolffe grunts, not overly happy to hear that, and lets Fil take the steps down into the main cavern first. He turns, taking one last look around the tunnels, and…there's nothing. Nothing but shadows, a trace of moonlight from the cracks far above, and kilometers of stone and water in every direction.

Cursing himself for paranoia, Wolffe turns, stalks down the stairs. The cavern is quiet, half the men bedded down, Swan meditating by the small fire. Wolffe checks Banks, who’s a bare meter away from her with one hand on his blaster, one eye cracked as he checks Wolffe and Fil, and whatever he sees makes him sit up with a frown. Catching his eye, Wolffe tips one hand in a vague approximation of the sign for _bad feeling_ , and Banks nods, but doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he raises a questioning brow, then tips his head at a spot along the wall. A little confused, Wolffe looks—

Freezes at the sight of tangled limbs, black and brown and dusty orange, sprawled out over the ground.

For an instant he thinks it’s the aftermath of a fight, even though that makes no sense. Then his thoughts jar sideways into something else entirely, and it feels a little like getting punched in the gut, even if Wolffe can't explain _why_. Feral having sex with Agen is his own business, and faster than Wolffe would have thought he could move, but—

But it’s not that, either. They're just sleeping, Feral practically curled up on top of Agen, all of their limbs wound together beneath Agen's cloak, which has managed to get dragged halfway off, and the sash of his tunics with it. Feral has his nose pressed to dark skin, and he’s tangled in Agen's hair, one arm wrapped around Agen like he can't bear to let go.

It’s not quite a sinking feeling in Wolffe’s stomach, but just for a moment it’s hard to swallow.

“That’s adorable,” Fil says, deeply amused, and bumps his shoulder into Wolffe’s, smiling. “Like tooka kittens, right?”

If tooka kittens made Wolffe feel like he just missed a step going down a ladder in the dark, it would be. He wants to say they should wake them up, just to be sure, just in _case_ , but at the same time he feels like his feet are stuck where they are, glued to the stone, and he can't move.

“Deadly kittens,” he manages, because some kind of response is probably appropriate, and Fil snorts.

“Nexu kittens are weird-looking little bastards, or I would have used them,” he says. “General Kolar's definitely not weird-looking, though.”

He’s not. Wolffe can recognize, objectively, that Agen Kolar is a beautiful man, and he hasn’t thought about Feral, but—he’s not terrible to look at. Not by a long shot. He’s lean and broad-shouldered and obviously muscular, like a hunting cat, and he has a face that some people would probably call kind. When he smiles, it’s…not bad. If Wolffe had met him at a bar on shore leave somewhere, he might have thought seriously about approaching him, trying to get an invite to his room.

But they're not on shore leave, and Feral is—

Wolffe isn't thinking about this. He doesn’t _care_. If Kolar and Feral want to cuddle, it’s fine, and Wolffe’s only concern is for Kolar's ability to wake up before Feral strangles him if the Nightsisters take over his mind again.

 _We should wake them up_ , he almost says. The words are on the tip of his tongue. But it’s not right, and the urge behind them is one Wolffe refuses to look at too closely. He _won't_.

He grits his teeth, turns on his heel. Fil makes a surprised noise when he pulls away, but Wolffe ignores it, crossing the room to where Bultar is sitting, peaceful and unmoving. As he approaches, she opens her eyes, then tips her head up to look at him, raising one brow, and Wolffe pauses, a little disconcerted by the fact that that look feels like _Plo_.

“General,” he says, more cautiously, and Bultar smiles and shakes her head.

“Sit with me, Commander,” she says. “Tell me what you saw.”

Wolffe swallows, feeling a little like he’s just been caught off guard. The back of his neck itches, but he determinedly doesn’t glance back at where Feral and Kolar are sleeping. “Nothing, General. Just a bad feeling.”

Bultar frowns a little, inclining her head. “Bad feelings usually have a basis,” she says, “even when they aren’t grounded in the Force. Describe the tunnel you were in for me?”

“Will that help?” Wolffe asks a little skeptically, because after seeing what Plo can do, he’s not one to doubt a Jedi, but—sensing minds with the Force has always seemed more like radar to him than anything else.

Bultar casts him a smile, quick and a little mischievous. “No,” she admits. “But if you’re describing the memory of it, you might notice something you missed in the moment, and I’ll see if I can sense anyone else nearby while you do so.”

Jedi, Wolffe thinks with an aggrieved sigh, and Bultar laughs at him just like Plo does. She’s really too much like her Master, Wolffe thinks, but—

It’s a distraction, and he sure as hell could use one right now, even if he can't figure out _why_.


	32. Chapter 32

The window isn't locked.

Somehow, even with everything else, that’s the one thing that stumps Sinker. The room is large and neat and definitely the nicest one he’s ever been in that he’s _not_ actively using for cover from incoming fire, and Ursa had showed him into it, told him she’d collect him for a late breakfast in the morning, and left them to their own devices.

Well. Left him to his own devices. Sinker sure as hell hopes she left Savage to _his_ own, but the odds are that he won't be able to tell until Savage wakes up.

Still, Ursa hadn’t locked the door after her, and Sinker checked for guards but couldn’t see any. It makes him _itch_ , because the obvious thing for her to do is watch them, and even beyond the basic logic of it, a hood isn't exactly the best disguise. If she doesn’t at least suspect that he’s hiding his face for a reason, she’s not nearly as quick as he’s sure she is.

Between the hood and his name, Sinker’s expecting to get made shortly. And when he does—

Breathing out, Sinker checks the window again, just to be sure. It swings open easily, big enough to squeeze through in a pinch, though Savage might have a little more trouble with it. The Wrens’ house is big, sprawling, taller than the surrounding buildings, and Sinker can see at least three ways to get back down to the streets if they really need to. More, if Savage is in control of himself and willing to help. It’s almost more unnerving than getting locked into a windowless room in the basement somewhere would be, and Sinker grimaces to himself, leaves the window cracked to keep himself from checking again, and makes another circuit of the room.

On the bed, Savage is perfectly motionless. He’s still breathing, but that’s about it.

“Bantha shit,” Sinker mutters, and stops himself from taking another lap. Instead, he drags one of the squishy chairs across the room and dumps it by the bed, then drops into it and tugs his hood down a little more. Wants to haul it back, get a little more peripheral vision when he’s about to twitch out of his skin, but—if the doors aren’t locked, maybe there are cameras. That would be logical. More logical than Ursa _not_ keeping an eye on the two strangers she dragged home, one of whom already tried to kill her and her daughter.

“You do cause me the most interesting problems,” he tells Savage ruefully, and then sighs, sinking back in the chair. He misses Boost. He misses Wolffe. The idea that he’s all but on his own out here, in the middle of a galaxy that’s never had any sort of kindness for clones, is unnerving. Especially when the Sith who’s really kriffing good at killing clones is his only real ally. But—

Sinker looks at Savage, perfectly still on the bed, his head bandaged, all the various blaster wounds covered with bacta and bandages. He tried to kill Sinker, tried to kill Ursa and her daughter, but at the same time, there's a twist in Sinker’s chest that feels like sitting next to him on the ship, watching him smile when he heard about Feral kicking Wolffe’s _shebs_. Like watching him react to touch, the desperate way he seems to want it and not be able to bear it at the same time. And—well. Going by what Feral said, going by what Sinker’s seen with his own eyes, it’s pretty easy to figure out that the Nightsisters don’t exactly put a lot of stock in bodily autonomy. Or at least, not the bodily autonomy of anyone not a Nightsister.

He’s still trying to put all the pieces together. Ventress is clearly the big shadow over Savage, and Sinker’s betting Dooku is another one. Maul has been working against Dooku in the war, and the Nightsisters haven’t seemed to have much allegiance to anyone that goes deeper than a one-time alliance. Savage was Dooku's apprentice, but from what he said, he didn’t have any sort of choice in that. And—

The start of him as the Republic’s enemy was him being Dooku's apprentice. And if Talzin and Ventress _gave_ Savage to Dooku, like some kind of toy, a pawn in some plot to get revenge, it’s—well. Savage has killed in the time since he joined Maul, but at the same time, Sinker’s aware enough to know that getting declared a Sith and an enemy of the Republic didn’t exactly leave Savage a lot of room to exist on his own.

It’s not an excuse for anything he’s done. Feral making the choices he did on Sekind is proof enough that even in bad situations, people can see what’s wrong and change their paths. But…

 _They take us, and use us, and their magic plays with our minds, our_ lives _—_

It’s become pretty kriffing obvious just how thoroughly the Nightsisters play with the minds of those around them.

With a quiet sigh, Sinker shifts, gets a foot on the chair’s seat and curls forward a little, reaching out. Savage was mind-controlled to the point that he killed Feral, or almost killed him. Thinking of that is enough to make Sinker’s skin crawl, and that’s without this last bout of control, having to _watch_ as Savage was dragged from relatively calm planning to mindless rage, every moment making him slip a little more. Like with Feral there was no chance to resist, no way for him to get out of their control. Just a long fall, and then Savage standing up without any sort of reason behind his eyes.

Watching Feral turn robotic was bad enough. Savage doesn’t get wiped away like Feral does, doesn’t become someone else. He’s still _there_ , up top, but…there's nothing left of the little bits of humor and the deep care and sorrow and desperation that Sinker saw in quieter moments. Just rage.

Reaching out, Sinker touches Savage’s knuckles, smooths his fingertips over Savage’s long fingers, and tries not to think about Wolffe, before and after the _Malevolence_. The attack, the hours in the escape pod afterwards—it changed all of them, but Wolffe most noticeably. Before that he was…hopeful. Kind without the edge of brusqueness he has now. Never _cheery_ or even particularly jovial, because that’s not who Wolffe is, but. Softer around the edges, maybe. Sinker doesn’t want to consider the parallels, the echoes of something kinder he’s seen in Savage, but that moment by the tram platform keeps coming back. Savage, amused, teasing even if he kept a straight face, and the way his hands were gentle as he pulled Sinker’s hood back up.

Feral talked about him like he was someone kind, and admirable, and easy to love. Sinker knows what Wolffe was like before the entire Wolfpack was killed, and—well. It’s easy, given what Feral said, to imagine what Savage was like before he was forced to kill his little brother and then handed over to a man who thinks torture is a fun pastime.

Beneath his fingers, there’s a twitch. Savage’s hand curls, grasping at Sinker’s, and Sinker only hesitates for a moment before he lets it happen, wrapping his hand around Savage’s and squeezing lightly. “Hey,” he says, leaning forward. “How’s your brain? You still carrying around some hitchhikers?”

There's no reaction, not even the annoyance Sinker expects. Savage’s breath rasps in his throat, and golden eyes slide open, staring unblinking at the ceiling. His grip on Sinker tightens convulsively, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn his head. Worry flickers, and Sinker slides to his feet, leaning over him, but if Savage sees him, there's no sign.

“Savage?” Sinker asks, low. He wavers for an instant, then reaches up, smoothing a thumb over one of Savage’s broken horns. There’s a shudder, tight and barely noticeable, like a tremor through Savage’s muscles, but he doesn’t pull away, and Sinker settles on the edge of the bed, watching his face. There's a grim sort of suspicion rising in his chest, and he studies the blankness of Savage’s stare, the tight clench of his jaw, and breathes out.

“Lots of hitchhikers, still,” he says quietly. “Savage, could you look at me?”

For a long, long moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, Savage’s eyes slide sideways, locking on Sinker’s. There's no green glow, like there was with Feral, but he’s not entirely present, not even _mostly_ present.

“What can I do?” Sinker asks quietly, leaning in. “Savage, let me help you. Tell me what I can do to get them out of your head.”

He can't imagine it, doesn’t want to. Not being able to control himself, not being in control of his own actions. A person far away, sitting on a throne, waving a hand or flipping a switch and suddenly taking him over, erasing all the important parts of him and turning him into nothing but a weapon, a tool. The clones always get called living droids, or worse, but—they have _themselves_ , at least. Savage doesn’t even have that right now.

Savage’s hand twitches around his again, and for an instant Savage’s eyes slide closed. He growls, a low and rumbling sound that no Human could copy, and turns his head like he’s trying to get away.

“Don’t,” he manages, ragged.

Sinker almost pulls away, but—it sounds like that same plea from before, the order to leave that was so full of horror Sinker couldn’t take it as anything but desperation. Desperation not to hurt Sinker, as strange as that was coming from a Sith who usually mows down clones on his way to kill Jedi. Or maybe it’s just a desperation not to let the Nightsisters win, not to let them make him kill more people the way he did Feral, unaware and under their control.

“If there’s any way I can help,” he says, “I'm not going to leave, Savage.”

Savage’s muscles twitch all over, and he hisses, jerking his head back. his rough horns scrape the headboard, and his free hand claws at the blankets, but the hand wrapped around Sinker’s doesn’t break bone, even though Savage could. It makes Sinker swallow, then lean down, and—easy to remember Maul pulling Feral close, the sickening lurch of realization about what that gesture meant. Easy, too, to remember how Feral flinched away from Savage, didn’t let him repeat the gesture. And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s reckless, but Sinker presses his forehead to Savage’s like it’s a Keldabe kiss, like he can offer some comfort that way.

“Come on, Savage,” he says soothingly, and strokes his horns, feeling another tremor rock him. “It will be all right. You can beat them. Remember what you told me? You wouldn’t let them control you ever again. And you won't.”

Savage’s hand comes up, but Sinker doesn’t flinch away, just holds still. Savage grips his hair, the back of his neck—

A wrench, and before Sinker can even start to catch himself he slams into the bed, starts to jerk and then promptly gets flattened as a huge body hits him, pinning him completely. Savage growls, looming over him, and his eyes glow yellow, almost unnervingly bright as he slides a hand up. Sinker twitches, grabs for his wrist, but he can't stop long fingers from locking around his throat.

“ _Savage_ ,” he says, sharp, and fear kicks beneath his ribs, makes his pulse race beneath Savage’s hand. But—

There's no pressure. Savage isn't choking, isn't breaking his neck. He’s frozen, jaw clenched, face a rictus of something like pain.

Slowly, carefully, Sinker loosens his grip on Savage’s wrist. He swallows once, sliding his hand up a little, and laces his fingers over Savage’s.

“Come on,” he says, as light as he can manage through the tension. “Don’t give me the perfect opportunity to make a bad joke without even being aware enough to hear it. That’s just a waste.”

“Stop _talking_ ,” Savage grits out, but he sinks forward, pressing his forehead to Sinker’s as he breathes, and Sinker reaches up, stroking his horns lightly.

“I mean it,” he says quietly. “What do you need?”

There's a pause, so long that Sinker thinks Savage isn't going to answer. Just as he opens his mouth to press, though, Savage huffs, closing his eyes, and his hand loosens on Sinker’s throat. He slides it up, locks it around Sinker’s wrist instead, and presses it down into the bed, then says, “You—you think. Clearly.”

Jedi are empaths, telepaths. Sinker knows that much. And—there's nothing saying that Sith aren’t the same way, even if it’s channeled different. He’s heard Plo mention training bonds between Masters and padawans, anchoring thoughts, and he pauses, considers for all of half a second, and then says, “Is it enough to calm you down, if you can hear my thoughts?”

Savage’s eyes slide open, slow, and the burn of gold from bare centimeters away shouldn’t be so captivating. He stares at Sinker for a long, long moment, and then says roughly, “Don’t. You wouldn’t—it’s _too_ _much_ —”

“They're not,” Sinker says, and believes it. “You managed to keep them out before. With a little extra help, you should be able to manage it just fine.”

“Not _for_ me,” Savage gets out, edged with fury, and his grip tightens, hard enough to bruise, but Sinker doesn’t flinch. “Not _them_. _I_ am too much. My rage would tear your mind apart. I would destroy you, clone.”

 _I_ _would_ , rather than _it would_. There's a settling of certainty in Sinker’s chest, and this might be the most reckless thing he’s ever done since the last time he stepped in front of Savage when he was losing it.

Then again, Sinker’s still kicking, so clearly he’s onto _something_.

“Can't work like things are now,” he says, keeps it light even as Savage’s expression twists. “Might as well try something different instead of just punching the wall, right?” He pauses, weighing what else to add, and then says quietly, “If it _doesn’t_ work, the window’s open. You should be able to fit if you squeeze. And the ship’s code is—”

“Stop _talking_ ,” Savage says, frustrated, and presses a hand over Sinker’s mouth.

Sinker can’t help it; even with the situation, even with Savage pinning him completely and his eyes glowing Sith-yellow, he laughs. Shoves Savage lightly with a knee to Savage’s thigh that doesn’t even make him _budge_ , just gets him an irritated grunt.

“Idiot,” Savage mutters, derisive, but his hands are careful as he releases Sinker’s wrist, drops his hand from his mouth. He stares at Sinker for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then says, “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’d rather do this than have the nice Mandalorian lady shoot you again,” Sinker says frankly. “Or have the Nightsisters grab your brain and send you rampaging through Concordia. They're still in there, right?”

Savage doesn’t say anything, but his deep grimace is answer enough.

A different track, maybe, Sinker thinks, and reaches up. The black of Savage’s markings is so much starker than the natural sweeps of Feral’s, blocky and heavy and skull-like in how it lines his face. It makes him look even more intimidating than his size would otherwise, but when Sinker touches his temple with light fingers, there's a shift like Savage wants to lean into it, even if he won't let himself.

Feral got cold, Sinker remembers. Because Dathomir is a relatively warm world, or at least the part of it that the Nightbrothers are from is warm, and he wasn’t used to the chill of space. Savage is from the same place; it’s the simplest thing in the world to realize that he’s probably cold, too, but—well. No one would bother to consider it.

“I offered before, didn’t I?” Sinker says quietly. “Before they got you last time. Whatever you needed. They were just too quick for us that time.”

The sound Savage makes is low, bitter amusement, and he closes his eyes, head bowing like he’s tired. A ripple of tension slides through him, muscles all going tight for an instant before it eases again, and he digs his fingers into the blanket and growls.

“Savage,” Sinker says, not sharp, but firm. “You don’t want them taking you over, either. Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Savage scoffs at that, but he lifts his head again, and there's something in his face that strikes Sinker as fear. Old, tired, worn fear, but it’s still startling to see, dug into his face and carved into the lines around his eyes.

“If you offer this,” he says darkly, “I will take it, and give you nothing back.”

Sinker snorts. “I’m not _just_ offering out of the goodness of my heart,” he points out. “They’ve made you choke me out twice in the last two days, and I’d rather they didn’t try it again.”

Savage pauses, like hearing that is a surprise, and his eyes flicker down. Deliberately, he reaches up, hooks his fingers in the neck of the cloak, and pulls it free, letting the cloth fall away. Sinker holds still as Savage touches the deep bruises around his throat from their first tussle on Sekind, the marks from just a few hours ago that are probably starting to darken. His expression twists, self-hatred easy to see, and he pulls away like he can't bear to keep touching.

Before he can get more than a few inches, Sinker grabs one of his horns, pinning him where he is. “Hey,” he says, and this time it’s more insistent, sharper. “If you don’t like it, _fix it_. I offered you a way, didn’t I? Even if it doesn’t work, at least you're trying something instead of just sitting here waiting for them to take you over again.”

Sinker’s generally pretty easy-going, to the point it sometimes annoys Wolffe and Boost. But—he doesn’t like helplessness. Too many hours in an escape pod, with droids cracking the pods around them and dragging clones out to die in hard vacuum, made him hate not being able to do anything. There's a path forward here, though. This isn't helplessness. It’s too many bad options and a lot of pain no matter what path Savage picks, but there's still a path. All he has to do is take it. Sitting here frozen where there's a way to make things better is the sort of thing that’s designed to grind Sinker’s gears, and he won't let Savage do it.

Some of that must break through, because Savage blinks down at him, and just for a moment Sinker can see the resemblance to Feral clearly. It’s there in the flicker of humor, the way his mouth twists with regret and determination, and he snorts, hooks a hand in Sinker’s collar, and pulls him up as he sits back. The cloak falls away, but Sinker can't find the space to protest, because one big hand is cupping his face, a thumb pressed to his temple.

“Then I shall take your offer,” Savage says, and Sinker swallows, wraps a hand around Savage’s wrist, and gives him a rueful smile.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and something he can't read flickers across Savage’s face.

“Yes,” he says, but not like he believes it, and closes his eyes.

Sinker has no idea how Jedi or Sith mind tricks are supposed to work, or if there's anything he’s supposed to be doing right now, but he figures Savage would probably tell him if there was. For all of Savage’s warnings, he can't even feel anything—

And then, startling, he can.

It’s a little like Savage pressing him into the mattress, that same sense of being covered, of weight, of solidity bearing down. There's a strange sense of someone else, like standing close together in the darkness, a hand on his shoulder even if he can't see the other person, and the edge of something _vast_. Anger, Sinker thinks. Not _his_ anger, and he isn't angry himself, but the echo is there, reverberating though him. Easy to tell what it is, who it’s from, but—it’s not Sinker’s emotion, and that’s the oddest feeling in the galaxy.

“Oh,” he says, a little surprised, but mostly just interested. If he could poke the feeling with a stick, he probably would. “Huh. That’s it?”

Savage snorts, but even as Sinker watches there’s tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the line of his spine. “Can you feel them?” he asks, and his eyes open, gaze catching Sinker’s.

Sinker pauses, considering. Savage is still…obvious, somehow, and close, even beyond the physical. Rage, and grief, Sinker thinks, breathing through it, and beyond that—

Green. Bright, poisonous green, like acid eating away at the borders.

“Yeah,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “If a thought could reek like rotten eggs, that one would.”

Savage snorts, and Sinker can _feel_ the flicker of his amusement, a slow and subtle thing beneath the currents. “Hold still,” he says, and his other hand comes up, cups the other side of Sinker’s face. Before Sinker can even _think_ the joke that’s obvious, Savage’s eyes slide closed, and he breathes out. There's a strange, swooping sense of vertigo, a lurch, and Sinker’s breath catches hard in his throat. He grabs for Savage as the world twists, overbalances as something _shifts_ , and then freezes, trying to steady himself. His hands twist into cloth, and he swallows a groan, an edge of something too big to put into words inside his head.

There's a rough breath above him, a hand curling around the back of his head. Savage doesn’t offer any other comfort, doesn’t say anything, but it feels a little like he’s pulling Sinker around himself, settling deep. Like he’s opening new senses that Sinker’s brain doesn’t have the framework to comprehend, and Sinker hisses at the discomfort, a little too much, a little too strange. His face is buried in Savage’s shirt, and Savage is all around him, like Sinker can't think of anything else but instead of thinking it’s _presence_.

“Kriff,” Sinker breathes, trying to sort through it. “That’s…a lot.”

Tension slides through Savage, wariness like a warning flare in the distance. His hand loosens faintly, but before he can pull away, Sinker shakes his head. “Not _bad_ ,” he clarifies. “But—you—the galaxy feels like this to you?”

Savage pauses for a moment, then huffs, a touch of amusement rising again. “Yes,” he says, and an arm loops around Sinker’s back, eases him away from Savage’s chest. That trace of vertigo is still too strong to protest, and when Savage lays him out on the blankets, Sinker just groans, dropping an arm over his eyes.

“I have so many bad jokes I could be making right now,” he says, a lament, and shifts his arm enough to peer up at Savage. “Better?” he asks, because that green is still there, still clear.

Savage watches him for a long moment, then inclines his head. “I can feel your bad jokes,” he says, but it’s a little gentler than it was, and he catches Sinker’s chin, tilts his head like he’s looking for something in his face. Sinker lets him, not sure what this is about, and whatever Savage is looking for, he apparently doesn’t find it, because he sits back with a touch of satisfaction.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. “I'm going to make it permanent, so the Nightsisters won't take advantage when one of us is asleep.”

“And I need to be lying down for that?” Sinker asks, though he doesn’t try to move. It’s…interesting. Like sitting on a sniper’s perch, looking down the barrel and trying to figure out what’s happening. Only the place it’s happening is inside his own head, and it feels like Savage is settling over him, _on_ him, even though Sinker can clearly see him sitting a few feet away on the bed.

With a quiet snort, Savage leans forward, catching Sinker’s wrist and pulling his arm down. “Yes,” he says. “My mind will go deeper into yours, and you're already struggling.”

Sinker stares at him for a long moment, fighting the impulse, and then laughs. “Yeah, well, you’re kind of big,” he says, and it’s a _bad_ joke, but he can't not make it. “It’s going to take some work to make you fit, but I think it’ll be fun.”

Savage stops short, brow furrowing, and then, with deliberate derision, he rolls his eyes. Sinker laughs, not trying to hide it this time, and keeps laughing as Savage reaches out and flicks him in the center of the forehead with one sharp nail.

“If you were a Zabrak, I would shake you by the horns for that,” Savage says reprovingly, and Sinker might be snickering even as he raises his hands in self-defense.

“It was _right there_ ,” he protests, and Savage scoffs at him, but leans down, bracing himself with a hand next to Sinker’s head as he looms over him.

Seriousness slides back into his face, and he says, like a warning, “This won't be comfortable.”

Sinker considers that for a moment. “Is it helping?” he asks.

Savage closes his eyes for a moment, and his breath shudders out of him as he dips down. He presses his forehead to Sinker’s, so close that Sinker can feel the faintest tremor in him, and says roughly, “Yes.”

As gently as he’s able, Sinker strokes his horns, running his fingers over the gnarled curves. “Then I'm fine with whatever you need to do,” he says simply, and Savage’s eyes slide open. He stares at Sinker for a long, long moment, eyes glowing yellow, and then slides a hand into Sinker’s hair, pinning him in place.

“All right,” he says, and Sinker can feel the way the presence in his head spreads and settles, sinking deeper. It makes him shudder from the sheer _strangeness_ , but Savage holds him still, holds him steady, and doesn’t let go.


	33. Chapter 33

For the first time since the Nightsisters’ ritual, the whispers are silent.

Savage almost can't believe it, almost can't take it. He feels…lighter, like he can breathe fully, without a weight on his lungs. The cool, calculating calm of Sinker’s mind is like a castle wall, guarding Savage’s thoughts, keeping the thorns of that controlling magic at bay, and Savage feels—

Almost like himself again. Angry, always, but it’s not the blind, overwhelming rage of before. He can think through it, and feel other things besides it, and there’s no urge to tear the world apart and drown himself in the ashes.

Grimacing, Savage tugs the last bacta patch free and drops it on the counter of the tiny ‘fresher, rubbing at the healing skin underneath. It’s still raw, but mostly healed, and the patches are annoying anyway. Better to leave them off and let himself finish healing normally. It won't take long; his head is already entirely healed, and his arm is working again. If he needs to defend them, Savage has confidence that he can.

Quickly, carefully, Savage pulls his shirt back on, though he leaves the heavy plates of his armor stacked on the floor. His lightsaber is lying on the table, deliberately within sight and within reach from the bed, but Savage isn't the one who put it there. He isn't the one who removed and stacked the armor, either.

When he half-turns, pulling a leg up onto the mattress and curling forward over it, Sinker is still asleep, sprawled on his back with a hand tucked beneath the pillow. Close to his vibroblade, Savage thinks, feeling a flicker of amusement, because Sinker had been all but unconscious in the aftermath of Savage connecting their minds, but he’d still hauled himself up, retrieved his knife, and stuffed it under the pillow before he let himself collapse.

It made him feel better. Savage _felt_ it make him feel better, the wash of relief as he settled. There's still an edge of that now, a sense of security that’s inlayed itself into Savage’s bones in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Even in the Nightbrother village, moments like this were few and far between, but—

Sinker trusts that he can sleep and not be harmed. Sinker trusts _Savage_ to protect him.

Savage curls his fingers in his horns, trying to breathe steadily as he watches. It _tugs_ , low and soft in his chest, and he’s angry, angry that he could feel _anything_ soft after all that’s happened.

But it’s not the overwhelming, devouring anger of a few hours ago. The Nightsisters aren’t whispering in his head, urging him onward to violence and destruction.

This is the bond Savage tried with Maul, and had to give up before he could even deepen it. Maul is fierce, reactive; he _burns_ , and Savage is so much tinder, always on the edge of losing control. Joining their minds together left the base they were on in ruins, neither of them speaking, Feral hunted-quiet for a full month when Savage saw him at all, and Savage had expected the same thing now. Had thought Sinker’s fear of him would push him over the edge, or his hatred would drive Savage into fury, and leave everything broken.

Instead, the Nightsisters’ magic isn't eating through him for the first time since his transformation. Sinker’s mind is steady and watchful and welcoming, and Savage _aches_.

Careful, deliberate, he reaches out, brushing fingertips up the line of Sinker’s collarbone, over the deep bruises on his throat. He doesn’t think about Feral’s body, falling limp from his grip, because that really will make him lose control, but—focuses. Lets himself press a little deeper into the bond, like submerging himself in still water, the calm pool of Sinker’s thoughts. Sinker is dreaming, nothing coherent, but there's red light in his mind, dark spaces, tension.

Nightmares, Savage thinks, and—he shifts them. Just a little. Guides Sinker back towards something lighter, and tells himself that it’s so he doesn’t have to live through a soldier’s nightmare when he’s been that so many times before. But the change makes Sinker sigh, makes his next breath come easier, and he curls in on himself, rolls over on his side and reaches out, still asleep.

Savage stares at his hand resting on the blankets for a long, long moment before he carefully picks it up, curling his own larger fingers around Sinker’s lax ones. He’s…warm. Not as warm as a Zabrak, but still noticeable when Savage has hardly touched anyone since Feral’s death. That aborted hug on Sekind was the closest he’s come in…a long time. Maul doesn’t invite casual touch, and beyond him, there's no one in the whole galaxy who would welcome Savage that close.

No one but a clone, someone Savage would have killed without thought even a handful of days ago. But—Sinker dragged him off the battlefield after Plo Koon knocked him out, got him away from Ventress, made plans for both of them to hide, survive. He hasn’t run, despite having multiple opportunities, and he keeps _planning_. Planning how to fight alongside Savage, or how to get him back in touch with Maul, or even just how to keep them both from being noticed. And—

He was laughing. Savage made him laugh.

The dreams of red light and empty darkness are gone. Instead, Sinker is dreaming of oceans, vast across the horizon, and white hallways behind him. Not _joyful_ dreams, but…peaceful. Savage can almost feel the remembered wind on his face, smelling of brine, and taste the humidity of a gathering storm as it rises. It thrills Sinker, even in his dreams, with a touch of reckless appreciation, a low, steady excitement. He likes storms over the ocean, Savage thinks.

Savage has never seen one, but with this glimpse through Sinker’s eyes, he almost thinks he would like to.

There's a low, quiet chime from the door, sudden enough to make Savage tense, and he turns, looking for the mind. A stranger, calm and patient, but Savage still frowns. On the bed, there's a groan, and Sinker opens one eye, then the other, and pushes himself up on one elbow, peering at the door with a bleary expression that belies the instant alertness of his mind. He’s still gripping Savage’s hand.

“Who’s that?” he asks with a grimace, sitting up.

Savage snorts softly, reaching out and grabbing Sinker’s discarded cloak. He drapes it around Sinker’s shoulders, pulling the hood down over his eyes, and says, “Go back to sleep.”

“Look, I know you’ve got a charming personality, but I'm thinking that letting you be the spokesperson here might not end in our favor—”

Savage ignores him, untangling their hands to rise to his feet and cross the room. When he hits the button, the door slides open easily, already unlocked, and the Human woman on the other side blinks at his chest, then tips her head back to look him in the face, brows rising.

“Oh,” she says, like Savage can't feel the flicker of wariness that makes her want to reach for the blaster at her hip. “You're back to normal, I take it.”

“Yes,” Savage says, and she’ll never know how true those words are. He pauses, and—those last moments are still mostly clear, as far as they can be through the rage. It’s easy to remember a woman with a child, aiming for her because it put him in mind of Feral. Savage grips the edge of the doorway, struggling for words; he hasn’t apologized to anyone in too long, hasn’t felt the need when everything was falling down around him, but right now he almost wants to. It’s just…difficult.

“Your…daughter,” he manages. “She’s all right?”

The woman studies him for a moment, eyes sharp. “She is,” she says, a little cool. Wary, and it prickles across Savage’s senses, but—not enough to make him furious, the way it might have before. “Thanks to your friend.”

“Thanks to you, too,” Sinker says, and his hand on Savage’s elbow pushes him lightly to the side a step. “Countess Wren. Is everything all right?”

“Ursa,” she says firmly, and her smile at Sinker is crooked. “Any more bacta needed?”

“I think we’re good,” Sinker answers, smiling back. “Hard to keep the patches on this one longer than a few hours, anyway, and I wouldn’t want them wasted.”

Ursa snorts softly. “You're as bad as my husband,” she tells Savage, amused. “He can't stand them, either.”

Savage doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Sith don’t heal, technically, but he’s used to patching himself up, dealing with his own wounds and judging his own readiness. He doesn’t need the bacta patches for any longer than he uses them, technically, so there's no reason to leave them in place.

“The silent type, I see.” Ursa eyes him, then casts a glance at Sinker. “I thought I included enough for you to use some on your throat.”

Sinker carefully tugs the folds of the cloak a little higher around his neck. “I'm fine,” he says lightly, and Savage catches the undercurrent of stubbornness, traced through with a sense of _have to prioritize, have to conserve, can't waste anything_. “Just bruises, I promise.”

Ursa inclines her head, accepting that, and then pauses. Savage can feel a trace of tension in her, an edge of something unhappy, and he stiffens. Sinker’s gaze flickers over to him for an instant, then slides back to Ursa, and he inclines his head.

“Ursa,” he starts. Pauses, and then asks, “Should we leave?”

Relief rises, sharp and touched with regret. “I’m sorry,” Ursa says. “I've made arrangements for other lodging for you, but there were…unforeseen factors, I'm afraid. Staying here any longer will be dangerous.”

Savage’s grip on the door tightens, making metal creak under his hand. Ursa's eyes go to him, but she doesn’t flinch, just tips her chin up and meets his gaze squarely. “I _am_ sorry about this,” she says, though it’s unwavering.

“It’s fine,” Sinker says lightly, and tugs at Savage’s arm. “Let’s get your armor,” he says, and then closes the door, and Savage considers resisting, considers growling, but Sinker is thinking of planned escape routes and other places he saw in the city and the possibilities of holing up in an abandoned mine. It’s…not quite a comfort, but it keeps a steady flow of calm beneath the surface, and Savage takes it.

“Want to go out the window?” Sinker asks, too low for Ursa to hear, as he crouches down to pick up Savage’s armor and hand it over. He’s thinking of guards and arrests and possible Nightsister spies, and Savage frowns, weighing the choice. Sinker’s words about the Nightsisters knowing of Feral’s capture well before even Maul did are too close for comfort, and he trusts the barrier of Sinker’s mind to keep Mother Talzin out, but—

If Ventress comes here, if she comes back for him, the odds will never be in Savage’s favor.

“You think there is that much danger from her?” he asks, frowning.

Sinker doesn’t glance back at the door, eyes on Savage’s pauldron as he buckles it on. “She’s a countess,” he says. “I'm not worried about her. I'm worried about who she answers to. If the Nightsisters have an in on a Republic world, odds are they have more of one on a neutral world like Mandalore.”

Savage’s skin crawls, and he twitches away from the pressure of Sinker’s hands, only able to think of Ventress, her nails on bare skin. Instantly, _aware_ , Sinker lifts his hands and steps back, leaving the pauldron half-buckled. There's a flicker of alarm, but— _for_ Savage, not because of him.

“Savage?” he asks, and Savage breathes through his nose, controls the curl of nausea in his gut, and jerks his head in something like a nod.

“If they come here, they will seek out power,” he says gruffly.

Sinker’s smile is quick and wry. “Yeah, well, carrion always attracts maggots, right? But we can keep you out of sight, and I think that will be enough. There's no reason anyone would think you kept me alive long enough to make it here.”

The words aren’t meant to hurt; they're simply fact, distracted, offhand as Sinker orders his plans. But even so, despite the logic to it, despite the _truth_ and the past and all the clones Savage has killed without even considering their number afterwards—

He almost flinches. Here and now, with Sinker wearing bruises around his throat, with his mind curled bulwark-strong around Savage’s, hearing that feels like something close to Feral’s flinch away from him on Sekind.

There's a pause, careful. When Savage looks down, Sinker is watching him again, slightly startled. “Hey,” he says, and takes a step closer, then stops. “You okay?”

Savage can't deny the words. He can't argue, because they're entirely true. He considered it more than once, even, and that makes his breath rasp harsh in his throat when he says, “If I am seen, even if the Nightsisters haven’t heard of our presence here, they could be alerted.”

“Yeah, not a lot of two-meter tall Sith warriors,” Sinker says ruefully. “You should definitely stay out of sight. Whatever lodgings the countess is putting us up in, we can probably trust them for a night, but not longer than that.” He looks Savage over, then asks, “Think you can tail us? I’ll see if I can get more information out of her about what’s happened.”

Savage snorts, because that at least is simple. He turns, collecting the vambraces and latching them on, and then eyes the window.

“Maybe we should take the armor back off if you're going to go out that way,” Sinker says, and his voice is rich with amusement. “I don’t think you're going to fit otherwise. Not with shoulders like those.”

The words aren’t derisive. If anything, there's a flicker of appreciation in them, the same sort of thing Savage felt by the train platform. There's no part of Savage that knows how to take that, so he ignores it, sliding the window open and folding himself out of it with only a little bit of effort. Behind him, there's a sound of disbelief, and Savage pauses on the windowsill, glancing back.

“Like _cats_ ,” Sinker says, grinning, and waves him off. “Say out of sight.”

“I don’t need to be _told_ ,” Savage counters, and rises, pulling himself up onto the roof in the growing dusk. Below, the window slides shut, and Savage only spares a moment he slides along the rooftop and drops down in a crouch above the walkway that runs between the wings of the house. Muffled by stone and metal, he can hear a door close, voices. Sinker feels like deception, bland and friendly, and Savage cocks his head, eyes narrowing as he tries to gauge what Sinker is saying.

“—find his own way,” Sinker is telling Ursa as they emerge from the hall into the sunlight. “I think there was something he needed to do, but he knows how to find me again.”

It hits as suspicious that Ursa doesn’t object to Savage’s disappearance, or even dwell on it. If anything, there's a flicker of tangled relief in her chest, mixed up with concern, and she nods.

“There's plenty of business to be done on Concordia,” she says, a little wry, and inclines her head to one of the guards as she starts down a set of wide stone stairs. Instead of staying at her post, the woman immediately falls in behind them, and Savage frowns, something unsettled turning in his chest. “Clan Wren is based on Krownest, but I will admit business brings me here rather often.”

Savage’s skin prickles, and he shifts up, turns and looks over the city, able to feel eyes but not sure where they are. Not on _him_ , but…there's attention on Sinker, steady and hostile.

The whispers haven’t come back yet, Savage thinks, curling his hands into fists, carefully away from anything he might break. His mind is still his own. It isn't the Nightsisters and their magic giving him this feeling, but that leaves too many options even so.

“Krownest,” Sinker repeats, frowning a little. “That’s in the New Kleyman system, right?”

“Yes,” Ursa says, something warm in her voice. “You aren’t from Mandalorian space, are you, Sinker? But you know more than I would have expected about our home.”

Sinker pauses for a moment, even as he follows her around the curve of the building and towards the front gate. “I didn’t—there wasn’t exactly anyone to pass on stories,” he says finally, and Savage can feel the slant of his thoughts, the image of a man in blue and silver armor, back turned, a small boy at his side. The memory aches like the pull of an old scar, edged with anger, and Savage thinks of Sinker’s words about Jango, his abandonment of the Mandalorians. Thinks of millions of clones, created to die, and curls his fingers more tightly into a fist.

The Mandalorians weren’t the only ones Jango abandoned, if what Sinker is feeling means anything.

“But you taught yourself,” Ursa says, and comes to a halt, turning to look at Sinker squarely. “You researched, and learned, even though there was no parent to teach you.”

Sinker is quiet for another long stretch of seconds, then snorts softly. “Yeah,” he says, almost an admission. “Guess I wanted to know where I came from. Especially when things in front of me were looking pretty grim.”

Something in Ursa's face softens, and she reaches out, rests a hand on Sinker’s shoulder. Savage watches her warily, but he can't feel anything except warmth in her, a curled, protective sort of faith. “Mandalore grows its people through foundlings,” she says. “Whoever your progenitor was, _regardless_ of him, you have a place here, Sinker.”

Through the connection, Savage can feel Sinker’s ache, the way he wants to reach out in return but doesn’t quite dare. “Thank you, Countess,” he gets out, and Ursa huffs, amused.

“I told you,” she says, gently chiding. “It’s—”

“Ursa.”

Ursa goes stiff, turns like a fighter, perfectly balanced and ready to move. The sight of the man standing behind her doesn’t do anything to make her relax, and Savage’s eyes narrow at the flare of alarm that spikes through her, the step back she almost takes.

“Governor Vizsla!” she says, and straightens sharply. “Sir, I wasn’t expecting you.”

Vizsla smiles, and it looks perfect, entirely kind, but Savage can feel the sharp edges of his attention, can see the way his eyes go right to Sinker over Ursa's shoulder. “Ursa, I was worried,” he says genially, and waves a pair of guards back as he steps forward, gripping Ursa's shoulder. “Gar told me you cancelled your meeting with him, and you're usually so punctual. I thought something might have happened.”

There's tension winding its way through Savage’s muscles, and he breathes out through his nose, tries not to react. The Nightsisters _will_ find him if he reveals himself, and beyond that, Sinker is capable. He’s watchful, but not in any distress.

“Just clan matters,” Ursa says, resting her hand over Vizsla’s for a moment before she drops it. It doesn’t look like a comfortable gesture. “I apologize for alarming Gar, Governor, it wasn’t my attention.”

“Oh course not,” Vizsla says kindly. “I just wanted to check up on you anyway, since there have been some unsettling rumors going around.”

“Rumors?” Ursa echoes with a frown. “From Mandalore? Or from here on Concordia?”

“Both, I'm afraid,” Vizsla says. “The unrest on Mandalore is getting worse, and the Duchess fears the recent attacks are just the start. But I've heard things here on Concordia as well that make me worry for Mandalore’s status as a neutral system.”

He’s lying. Savage frowns, trying to pick apart the words, but there's something self-satisfied about them, heavy with a pleased sort of sharpness. Layered, like Mother Talzin’s sometimes are, and Savage’s skin crawls as he shifts carefully, slowly back into the shadows.

“I'm sure the Death Watch will cease to be Mandalore’s problem very soon,” Ursa says, and that feels like it has too much meaning as well.

“Hopefully,” Vizsla says, amused, and then, “Are you going to introduce me to your guest, Ursa?”

Ursa doesn’t move, just tips her chin up slightly. “It’s simply clan matters, Governor,” she says. “I wouldn’t want to bother you with minutia.”

“Nonsense,” Vizsla counters. “Clan Wren is sworn to House Vizsla. I think that makes any minutia of yours entirely interesting, given the history of our families.”

Resignation rises, touched with anger, and Ursa inclines her head. “Of course, Governor,” she murmurs, and takes a step back, offering Sinker a hand. “Governor Vizsla, this is Sinker. He is _Mando’ad_ , but without a family. I was planning to offer him a place in Clan Wren.”

The jolt of pure surprise that spikes through Sinker is sharp enough to steal Savage’s breath, and he digs a hand into the column beside him, tensed to move but not sure where to go. Not sure _why_ , except for the rising tide of a bad feeling. Not rage, not fear, but—something three steps sideways, maybe. He sweeps a look over Sinker, Vizsla, and Ursa, then half-turns, casting a glance back out at the city. There's nothing immediately obvious to spark it, though, and Savage swallows against it, thinking of green light. Not the green light devouring him, but—light overtaking Feral, or Maul.

If the witches realized that he can't be stripped of his mind anymore, they might have turned to his brothers.

“Sinker, is it?” Vizsla asks thoughtfully, and steps around Ursa, approaching Sinker. Sinker holds his ground, though he ducks his head in an aborted bow.

“Governor Vizsla,” he says, perfectly polite. The way Feral used to speak to Brother Viscus, Savage thinks, and it’s like fingernails dragged down his spine.

His skin is all covered, he thinks, breathing out through his nose. The sensation isn't real, just remembered. It doesn’t matter.

Vizsla pauses, and that amiable expression slides into a frown. “Were you a foundling?” he asks, and behind him Ursa stiffens, takes a step with one hand raised—

“My father was Mandalorian,” Sinker says. “He was a foundling.”

Vizsla raises his hand, and like it’s a familiar cue, the two guards move up behind Sinker. Sinker notices them, but he keeps his eyes on Vizsla, doesn’t move even though he’s penned in, with guards between him and the gate.

It would be simple for Savage to leap down and kill them. He likely wouldn’t even have to draw his lightsaber. But—

He thinks of the Nightsisters whispering in the ears of the powerful, or having an in with the government, and—Vizsla is the powerful figure they would gravitate towards. Savage killing him might buy them time, but not enough, not when he’s the moon’s governor and his murder will bring the whole of Mandalore down on their heads. And if Savage _doesn’t_ kill him, that leaves him free to tell the Nightsisters exactly what he saw.

Sinker turns his head slightly. Not towards Savage, not directly, but in his direction with a deliberateness that Savage can't ignore. He’s thinking of shadows, and hiding, and _stay out of sight stay out of sight stay out of sight stay out of sight_ like a mantra, and Savage strangles a growl, digging his fingers into stone.

“Your voice strikes me as familiar,” Vizsla says lightly. “Have we met before, Sinker?”

“No,” Sinker says, perfectly uninflected. “I'm sorry, Governor, but we haven’t.”

“Right, my mistake.” Vizsla smiles, thin. “I must be thinking of your template, clone.”

Sinker barely even waits for the last word to fall; he lunges sideways, past Ursa, hits the ground in a roll and comes to his feet, twisting around the grab one of the guards tries, then grabbing the woman’s belt and throwing her over his hip. The second guard hits him full-on, and they go down, but Sinker twists, gets a foot in the man’s chest, and throws him, rising with his blaster up and aimed—

The glowing black blade of a lightsaber slices right through it, reverses. Vizsla hits Sinker hard before he can dodge, slamming him back into a wall, and the blade of that strange lightsaber levels right at Sinker’s throat as he freezes.

Deliberate, almost mocking, Vizsla reaches out, dragging Sinker’s hood off, and smiles. “Like I thought,” he says, pleased. “You fight like Jango Fett, clone. What a shame you have all the same weaknesses.”

“And what a shame you have the Darksaber,” Sinker says, even, but Savage can feel the low thrum of anger not his own.

Vizsla raises a brow. “A clone recognizes one of the symbols of Mandalore? How surprising.”

“Governor,” Ursa says, and she doesn’t quite put herself between Vizsla and Sinker, but the curl of her alarm is something sharp. “He might be a clone, but he’s Mandalorian, and he’s left the Republic’s army—”

“He’s not Mandalorian,” Vizsla says, dismissive. “Fett abandoned his people, and even before that, Mereel was waging a campaign to destroy our proud history, and deny us our birthright.”

“Then let me _make_ him Mandalorian,” Ursa says, resting a hand against Vizsla's arm. “As a member of Clan Wren, he will be tied to you—”

Vizsla smiles. “And let a Republic spy into my House?” he asks. “I think not. Guards, take the spy. He can't be allowed to report back to his masters.”

“Pre,” Ursa says, more insistently. “Even if he _isn't_ Mandalorian, you can't take a soldier of the Republic hostage. Duchess Satine is trying to keep Mandalore out of the war.”

Pre looks at her, then inclines his head. “Mandalore is _neutral_. It would break the Duchess’s heart to see the Republic’s duplicity,” he says, and meets Sinker’s eyes squarely. “You're right, of course, Countess Wren. But thankfully, I have full authority to deal with spies on Concordia on my own. Guards, take him back to the keep and lock him up. I’ll interrogate him about others who might be sniffing around.”

His mind is all cruel satisfaction, and Savage can hardly take a full breath through the familiar weight of it.

“ _Governor_!” Ursa protests, but Pre grabs her arm, pulling her out of the way of the guards as they drag Sinker’s hands behind him and cuff them. Sinker doesn’t struggle, just waits, testing the bonds, then assessing the guards with quick looks. He’s thinking about the paths through the city that brought them here, places where he might be able to get free and run, and Savage follows the slant of his thoughts, the rising edge of frustration as he realizes there's no good spot.

“Countess,” Pre says, on the verge of sharp. “You're still young, so it’s understandable you would be taken in by one of them. But please, for the sake of your clan, consider this _carefully_. We wouldn’t want a repeat.”

Ursa's mouth thins into a flat line, and she nods once. “Of course, Governor,” she says, and Pre smiles, claps her lightly on the shoulder, and turns away, waving his guards on as he deactivates the Darksaber and slides it out of sight beneath his coat.

“Take him away,” he orders, and the guards haul Sinker towards the gate, where another four guards are waiting. Two of them break off to fall in behind Pre, while the other two surround Sinker, leading him away into the maze of streets.


	34. Chapter 34

In the silence that falls across the courtyard, Savage breathes in, breathes out, and closes his eyes. Sinker’s mind is still a barrier around his, a tight wall locking the Nightsisters out, and—

Savage turns his head, looks after Sinker. He’s…free of Mother Talzin. He can't let himself be seen, but at the same time, he doesn’t need to fear her control. If he wanted to, he could leave now, go to find Maul and Feral. He can find them, and help them, without the threat of the Nightsisters bearing down on him. The bond will hold, regardless of distance, right up until the moment Sinker dies.

Savage won't have long, if Pre plans to eventually execute him.

But—

With a low growl, Savage slides back, pressing his spine up against the column and grabbing his horns. He _needs_ to find Maul. Maul needs his help, needs family, an anchor and a ballast. Savage is his brother, and he would follow Maul into anything, do anything for him.

He shouldn’t be hesitating. Sinker is just a clone, and he helped Savage, offered him protection from the Nightsisters, but he said himself that it was partially to keep Savage from hurting him again. He’s just a clone, and Savage’s brothers are in danger more with every moment he spends here. Helping will just bring him to the Nightsisters’ attention again, regardless.

Savage thinks of Sinker’s hand curled around his on the bed, the low, soft warmth of his laughter. Thinks of Sinker curled against his chest, trying to adjust as Savage locked their minds together, and the complete lack of hesitation when Savage made it permanent, immovable.

If he reaches out right now, he can feel Sinker’s thoughts still, that calm well of cool water, calculating and assessing beneath the fear as he’s marched away towards imprisonment, interrogation. There's still an echo of warning, the edges of his order to Savage to stay out of sight. The first order he’s given Savage, immovable and implacable, but—it wasn’t for his own sake.

“Countess?” a quiet voice asks from below, and Savage turns his head to watch as a Togruta woman approaches Ursa. The guard who followed them down the stairs, he thinks, and keeps half of his attention on them as she pauses at Ursa's side. “Are you all right?”

Ursa closes her eyes, drawing herself up straight. “Of course,” she says, though Savage doesn’t need to be able to feel the tangle of her thoughts to know it’s a lie. “Governor Vizsla is doing what he thinks is right.”

The other woman doesn’t say anything.

Ursa's expression twists, and she scrubs a hand over her face, head bowing for just a moment. “ _Haar'chak_ ,” she mutters. “Irra, send a message to Bo-Katan. She can usually reason with the Pre. We’re sworn to his House, but that doesn’t give him the right to object to those I bring into my family.”

“Yes, milady,” the Togruta says, and then pauses. “For a clone?” she asks.

Ursa's smile is crooked. “He’s not Jango Fett,” she says. “Those Fett created don’t carry the same shame.”

“Technically,” Irra starts, and then pauses like she’s searching for words.

Ursa breathes out. “Possession of the Darksaber decides the leadership of Mandalore,” she says precisely. “Whatever claim Fett had to the position of Mand’alor once, it doesn’t apply to Sinker. But he _is_ Mandalorian, and I told Pre he was about to be one of my family. That’s all that matters. It’s about our honor as Mandalorians, and as a clan.”

“Yes, Countess,” Irra murmurs, and turns, picking up a jog as she heads for the main part of the house. Ursa waits until she’s out of sight, then with another muttered curse, she drags her helmet on, activates her jetpack, and heads out over the city, following the path Pre took.

Savage doesn’t move. He feels as if he can hardly breathe. Ursa doesn’t know Sinker, and the fact that she even allowed him into her home after Savage tried to kill her is already surprising. But she didn’t just give them shelter, she’s trying to save Sinker. She’s talking about bringing him into her clan. Savage has little idea how Mandalorians work, but—he heard all the things Sinker said. That means something, especially when she knows that Sinker is a clone.

There's a chance she’ll be successful. From the brush of her emotions, the roil of anger and determination, Savage can tell she doesn’t think she will be. But clearly she has a plan, and a path forward, and people she can call for help. Vizsla is powerful, as the governor of this moon, but Savage can't say how powerful a countess is in comparison. Less so, since she’s sworn to him, but—maybe it’s a matter like power plays between Nightsisters.

Savage casts a glance around the courtyard, then drops from the roof, crosses the open space, and scales the wall in a few quick motions, leaping for the next closest rooftop. It’s an easy jump, hardly a strain at all, and he lands without any minds turned towards his presence, then slides back into the shadows. Pauses there, caught by a sudden flicker of indecision.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Savage doesn’t have someone prodding him on. There's no clone to let make their plan, no Nightsisters in his head, no brother with a thousand schemes that need to be set into motion. There isn't even a second brother, cheerful and cocky, with a bit of mischief in his mind.

Savage has no idea where Maul is. The queen, the senator—she and the guard took Maul, Sinker said, when the Nightsisters stole his mind. For an instant he thinks of the necklace he gave her, slipped from Maul's stash of artefacts to be sold or used to win them influence, but—he doesn’t have the scanners to look for the right energy signature, and she’s likely too far away to register even if he did. Waiting for the Pykes to make contact is the only other option, and Savage could go to another planet for that, or—

He stops short, breath hitching, rasping. Bows forward, gripping his own horns, and wants to curse himself. The impulse to go back to Mother Talzin is still there, just as it was when he escaped Dooku. Illogical, _idiotic_ —even then he knew that she favored Ventress over practically anyone, knew that he was her son but he was also just a male, a _Nightbrother_. But it was an instinct, carved into his soul, and it’s still there. Some whisper that’s entirely Savage’s own mind says that he should run to her, ask for her help finding Maul, Feral. She knew how to find Maul last time, gave Savage that amulet that led him right to the last of his kin.

Not the last. Not really. The whole time she’d been smiling with such sympathy at him, Feral was in a suspended state of near-death, tucked away in a back room of the temple. She’d _lied_ , but Savage’s darkest impulses still tell him to flee, to throw himself at her feet and beg for her help. He’s _afraid_ , alone on an unfamiliar world, and she’s at least a familiar terror that he doesn’t have to fight, just has to obey.

He stares at his hand, clenched tight on one of his remaining horns. Thinks of Sinker’s smaller hand, curled over his in the dark, back on the ship when Savage had been fighting inside his own head. Fearlessness, he thinks. Sinker had stepped in front of him, even when Savage was losing control, even when he’d been ready to tear the whole ship apart in a blind rage.

Even Feral flinches away from him when he’s angry.

With a low, desperate growl that vibrates through his chest, Savage shoves back, bracing his shoulders against the wall and sinking down, wanting to curl in on himself but not quite daring. Not here, alone in enemy territory. Not here, when _everywhere_ is enemy territory now.

Savage _could_ find allies. There will be plenty of people on this worthless rock willing to work for coin, or out of fear, or who desire power enough to help him. He doesn’t need to sit here frozen, like a child seeing the aftermath of a Nightsister’s visit for the first time. There's no clear path, but—he doesn’t have to sit here undecided. He can make a choice. With no outside factors to push him one way or the other, one could even say that he could make the first choice that’s wholly his own.

He can trust the Force, leave this planet, hope that his connection to Maul and Feral will lead him straight to one of them. He can go underground here, gather power and stay beneath the notice of the Nightsisters, wait for Maul to contact him. Sinker will be killed sooner or later, now that Vizsla has taken him, but maybe in that time, Sinker can find someone else who would be willing to make the same connection.

Sinker will be killed, Savage tells himself, and the words lodge beneath his ribcage like barbed darts, sink in and hold. Sinker will be killed, and then—

The phantom grip of Sinker’s hand around his own shouldn’t be something Savage even _thinks_ about, let alone something that consumes him, but it _is_ and Savage can't breathe.

If he leaves. If he goes after Sinker. Doing so will pit him against the governor of Concordia, who has a lightsaber or something like it, who has likely hundreds of guards. If _anyone_ notices him, word will get back to the Nightsisters, and then it won't matter if Savage saves Sinker at all. The Nightsisters will come for them, and they’ll take Savage again. And once they realize how Savage is resisting them—

Savage will be forced to kill Sinker with his own hands. He knows the Nightsisters, knows what they're like. Once they realize the connection, nothing will matter. Somehow, in some way, they’ll make Savage murder Sinker, just as they did with Feral.

His breaths come in shudders, and Savage grits his teeth, a snarl caught in his throat. It _aches_ , aches like old rage and helplessness and someone else’s hands on his skin, someone else’s whispers in his head. He won't let them _use_ him again, not for anything, but—

The one constant about the Nightsisters is that he never has the luxury of saying _no_ , even when he wants to _desperately._

_If you don’t like it, **fix it**._

Sinker’s words. Sinker’s words as he stared up at Savage like a challenge, like a _dare_. Like holding out a key and waiting for Savage, dangerous and half-mad, with bruises in the shape of his hand already imprinted on Sinker’s skin. _Fix it_ , like it’s that simple. Like it’s that _hard_. Like everything in the world could be changed if Savage just _wanted_ it enough.

But.

Savage raises his head, fingers loosening on his horns. The Nightsisters will find them if he goes for Sinker, but—maybe not immediately. Maybe they’ll have a few hours to get to their ship and run again, and it’s not anything Savage has ever wanted, to spend his life running, but.

He thinks of the crack of Feral’s neck breaking under his fingers, and anything in existence is better than that.

Taking a grim breath, Savage sinks back against the wall, tips his head back until his horns scrape stone. Curls an arm across his chest, remembering the slump of Sinker against him, clutching at him as he adjusted to the bond. He felt Sinker’s heartbeat, each rush of his breath, and if he focuses now, he can push past the fear, the anger, the indecision that lingers, and he can feel that again.

He doesn’t actively reach out for Sinker’s thoughts, because Sinker’s order to him earlier was a clear indication that he doesn’t want Savage out in the open. Savage doesn’t want to _be_ out in the open.

Letting Sinker die feels like it will snap something in Savage that’s far deeper than their new bond, though.

There's no need to actively let Sinker know he’s coming. It will save time, because Sinker will argue, and Savage doesn’t care. And beyond that, it’s safer if there _is_ a Nightsister nearby, already listening. Sinker’s question on the ship, about the Nightsisters being able to track Savage because of their hold on him—Savage doesn’t want to contemplate it, but it’s more possible than he’d been willing to say.

But—

Savage breathes in, and he’s not about to fall into rage. But somewhere else, muted, not his own, he can feel cold anger, icy in a way his own has never been. Sinker, he thinks, and reaches—

Pain washes across the side of his face, bursts down his back, and Savage’s breath catches. Not his pain. Sinker’s. They hurt him. And—it shouldn’t be jarring, not when Savage knew full well that Pre Vizsla planned to execute Sinker and nothing less, but it still makes his hands clench into fists, his own rage bubble up hot and acidic.

Vizsla took Sinker, and hurt him. Savage will make him pay for that.

It feels like a decision. Like a path. Savage digs his fingers into stone and pushes to his feet, one hand closing around his lightsaber, and—

This is _his_ decision. He’s going to take Sinker back, and even if it means the Nightsisters find them, it will be worth it.

Sinker said that no one would have expected Savage to keep a clone alive this long. He was right. Savage didn’t _let_ him live, though; Sinker kept himself alive, faced Savage down, never showed fear. He offered something Savage hadn’t even thought to look for, had given it to him without expecting anything in return.

Like a still-warm imprint, Savage can feel Sinker’s fingers stroking his horns, even though they’ve become craggy and rough and ugly. Touching him without hesitation, even knowing all the things Savage has done. Savage even told him about Feral, about killing his little brother, and Sinker still hadn’t flinched away.

The breath that rattles loose from Savage’s throat tumbles forward into a growl as he raises his head. Right up against his thoughts, Sinker is breathing, and Savage can feel the burn of his back, the pain in his face.

He can feel Sinker’s heartbeat, continuous and steady across the bond, and he turns his feet towards it and starts walking.

Something is wrong, so he’ll fix it. That’s all that matters.

“Get up,” Vizsla says precisely.

Sinker doesn’t spit blood from his cut lip all over Vizsla's boots, but that’s mostly because it would be an appallingly Wolffe thing to do and Sinker probably wouldn’t be able to pull it off half as well.

“You’re the one who knocked me down,” he says instead, perfectly mild, and pushes himself up on one elbow as best he can. “Kind of thought that was a hint.”

Vizsla doesn’t look even a little impressed by this response, and this time Sinker is braced for the kick, even if he can't stop it. Vizsla hits him in the center of the chest, but a couple of their shittier trainers back on Kamino liked that move too, and Sinker knows how to roll with it, curl around it. The force knocks him back right out of the hovercar, and he hits the ground hard on his already-bruised back as white-hot pain blots out his vision, but—

Nothing’s broken. That’s a decent start.

Rough hands haul him up onto his feet, and the guards pin him between them as Vizsla steps down from the hovercar, every hair perfectly in place, Darksaber hidden underneath his coat. “Guards,” he says coolly. “A violent criminal is in our midst, and must be dealt with. The Duchess in her wisdom has given me the authority to—”

“Given you,” Sinker says, unimpressed. “After the number of Mandalorians Tor Vizsla killed? That’s exciting. How long did you have to lick her boots for that?”

One of the guards’ helmets turns towards him just slightly, like they're surprised by the words.

“My father was a misguided man,” Vizsla says after a moment, eyes narrowing. Sinker meets his gaze squarely, not about to be scared of a Mandalorian who makes everyone else do his fighting for him and steps in to claim the winning blow. “But House Vizsla has been loyal to the New Mandalorian traditions of peace and compromise since Duchess Satine took the throne.”

Sinker trusts those words about as far as he can throw Savage, which is probably somewhere around ten centimeters if he gets a running start. Maybe Vizsla's just carrying the Darksaber around because it’s a fancy heirloom, or because he likes the color, but Sinker’s willing to put money down on him not being _nearly_ as in line with the duchess’s pacifist ideas as he claims to be. Just the fact that he’s governor of the colony where all the warriors were exiled is a good hint at that; he wouldn’t have gotten the job if he could keep control of them.

“Yeah,” Sinker says dryly, and spits out a mouthful of blood. On the ground, not at Vizsla, because he’s trying to make a statement more than start a fight. “My face is definitely grateful you're so peaceful, Governor.”

Vizsla stares at him for a long, long moment, then smiles thinly. Sinker really, really wants to put his fist in the middle of that expression. “You were plotting to assassinate me,” he says. “I don’t know why you expect lenience, clone.”

Sinker rolls his eyes, and maybe makes it obvious. “You know how Tor Vizsla was too much of a sniveling coward to ever face Jaster Mereel directly in a fight?” he asks, light, conversational. “Looks like you're carrying on that tradition, Governor.”

The punch that takes in him the gut is entirely expected, but also entirely worth it.

“Take him down,” Vizsla orders the guards, and without hesitation they drag Sinker away, out of the wide hangar and down a ramp leading right into the underbelly of the governor’s mansion. Out of sight, too, and there are three guards, and Sinker has his hands cuffed behind him, but it’s still an improvement over being in the middle of a dozen guards _and_ Vizsla.

He casts a careful look around, stumbling a little more than he truly needs to as he’s hauled forward. There's a lot of wide open space, tall columns, dark stone—not the best cover if he _can_ get away. Or at least, not in the daylight; at night he’s betting this whole place is a tangle of shadows. That could be an advantage. So could the fact that the guard on his right isn't going for nearly the bruising grip the other one is; in fact, Sinker can only just feel the pressure of their hand, which is promising.

“Pretty place,” he tells that guard. “Working here must be nice. Shame you have to look at Pre all the time.”

There's no reaction from either guard, and Sinker fakes another trip, trying to cast a look down another hallway as he’s pulled past. It looks bland and utilitarian, the doors he can see unmarked, and ends in another branching corridor, so he files it away. Building a mental map of this place might not end up helping, but Sinker doesn’t have much intention of sticking around, and he’ll take anything that can help him escape.

Ursa offered to _adopt_ him, he thinks, and it’s hard to breathe around the weight of that. It was the situation, she was trying to save him from Vizsla, it was partially a feint, but—

She’s Mandalorian. She wouldn’t have offered if she hadn’t meant it.

It won't happen. Even when Sinker _does_ escape, there's no way he’s going to keep wandering around Concordia where Vizsla can find him. But just the _thought_ knots in Sinker’s chest, rueful joy that he can't help but cling to. Not something he can accept, but—he wants to, and that probably means a lot. Jango saw to it that they were raised Mandalorian, trained as Mandalorians, but they were droids to him. He never acknowledged them _as_ Mandalorian, except in all the ways it made them better fighters. To have a chance to change that, to actually _be_ Mandalorian in the eyes of most of the system—Sinker _wants_ that.

Connection, he thinks, and closes his eyes. Something that matters that isn't the war. He’s _glad_ they were created, glad they exist, but the war can't last forever. He just wants something more. It’s why he’s always paid attention to Mandalore’s history, even beyond the bits the _Cuy’val Dar_ taught them. It’s _theirs_ , a tangible heritage all the clones belong to, and Sinker’s not going to let their bastard of a template take that away from them just because his head was too far up his own _shebs_ to realize they were sentient.

“Most of the galaxy says all the warriors on Mandalore died out,” he says, and the guard on his left turns their head just slightly before they catch themselves, looking ahead again. “Hasn’t even been twenty years since then, though. You have a hand in the dying out part?”

No answer. That’s fine. Sinker’s used to Wolffe and his moods, and getting ignored while he runs his mouth isn't all that uncommon. “It’s a shame,” he offers. “The trainers on Kamino—they’re all Mandalorian. Said that there was no place for honorable people to go like Mandalore.”

“That’s over,” the guard on the right says roughly.

“Hark,” the other guard says warningly, and Hark shuts his mouth, pulling Sinker along faster. He’s steered down a short flight of stairs, through two sets of security doors, and into a long hallway lined with doors, each one with a humming barrier over the small window cut into it. The whole place is deathly quiet, not even the sounds of anyone else breathing audible in the half-light, and Sinker grimaces.

“Shouldn’t you have someone screaming just for the ambiance?” he asks, and the guard on the left snorts but doesn’t answer. They turn their head, looking over at Hark, and then pause in the middle of the hallway.

“Cell 7,” they say quietly.

Hark hesitates, too, looking at them. “Rook—” he starts, then stops himself.

“Governor Vizsla didn’t give specific instructions on where to put him,” Rook counters. “7 is fine.”

“You're going to get us both strung up,” Hark complains, but his grip tightens, and he pulls Sinker around, making for a door with a security light that’s already glowing red.

“He’s just a _kid_ ,” Rook counters, and Sinker gets the distinct impression that they're not talking about him.

“I take it you know Vizsla's got the Darksaber,” he says, watching Hark punch in the code on the door without making any move to hide it. He’s not entirely sure if it’s overconfidence or deliberate assistance.

“The Darksaber belongs to all of Mandalore,” Rook says, “but Governor Vizsla holds it.”

Sinker wonders if it’s a secret, and how many people know if it’s not. Vizsla holding the Darksaber means he rules Mandalore, technically. That seems like the kind of thing that Duchess Satine wouldn’t be overly enthusiastic about, seeing as it’s _a relic of Mandalore’s barbarous past_ or whatever the party line is for the New Mandalorians.

“Clan Rook, right?” he asks Rook, who turns their head slightly, not quite looking at him. “Wasn’t Clan Rook part of the True Mandalorians?”

“Mand’alor Jaster Mereel died a long time ago,” Rook says, which isn't an answer at all. Sinker leaves it be, though, and when Hark lets go of him, stepping forward to catch the door, he doesn’t struggle, either.

Hark raps his knuckles on the metal. “We’re coming in,” he warns. “Don’t try anything.”

There's no answer, but Hark swings the door open, then steps into the gap. Gives it a second, then waves Rook forward, and Rook pushes Sinker ahead of them into the cell.

It’s not empty. Hunkered down, curled in the corner, is a tiny figure Sinker knows instantly, and his breath knots in his throat.

“You’ll be taken out for questioning when the governor orders it,” Hark tells Sinker. “Meals are dependent on good behavior. And no picking on the kid, or we put you in less comfy accommodations.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Sinker says, and the fact that his voice is still even is a minor miracle. He can't quite pull his eyes away from the kid in the corner, and it’s hard to breathe. “He’s more likely to bully me, anyway.”

Rook snorts, and a moment later the cuffs click off. They step back, blaster rising, and Hark takes three long steps back out of the cell. A moment later, the door closes, and the shadows over the room settle, darken.

Tucked back against the wall, Boba Fett stares at Sinker, and Sinker stares back, not even remotely sure how to handle this. He searches for words, for anything he can offer when Boba's looking at him like he’s just seen a ghost, and finally swallows.

“ _Ori’vod_ ,” he says, and sinks down, putting his back to the door, where he can hear anything happening in the hallway. “It’s been a while.”


	35. Chapter 35

“Don’t call me that,” Boba challenges, all prickly edges. “I'm not your _brother_.”

“I did say _big_ brother,” Sinker points out, flicking a quick, assessing look over him. Boba looks a lot thinner than he remembers, and there are bruises on his face and on what Sinker can see of his arms where they're wrapped around his knees. Not fresh bruises, but—still more than enough to make Sinker want to give Vizsla an extra punch or two, just for that.

“We’re not the same,” Boba says, expression twisting up like he just smelled something nasty. It makes Sinker roll his eyes, a flicker of annoyance rising, but he tamps it down, buries it. There's more to worry about than semantics, anyway.

“Right back in prison, huh?” he asks lightly, and lets his eyes slide up, checking the hinges on the door. “I thought after you got out of the one on Coruscant you’d steer clear for a while.”

There's a pause, wary, but Sinker doesn’t look over. After a moment, Boba says darkly, “I was trying to hire someone. One of Dad’s friends. For bounty hunting. But he turned me over to Vizsla.”

“ _Hut’uun_ ,” Sinker mutters, wrinkling his nose, and Boba huffs in agreement. “Makes Tor look like a shining example of bravery.”

Boba snorts, still watching Sinker closely. “What did _you_ do?” he asks abruptly. “Did you actually desert?”

Sinker hums, all too aware of the fact that there are probably security systems watching them at the very least. He catches Boba's gaze, then lets his eyes slide up to the corner of the room. There's no visible camera, but the meaning is hopefully still clear. “Well, my general has no idea where I am, that’s true. Less desertion and more an unauthorized field trip, though.”

Boba pulls a face that’s all disgust, though Sinker can't tell if it’s at the idea of being monitored or the mention of the Jedi. “I think that counts as desertion,” he says pointedly, and then pauses, watching Sinker silently for a long moment. In the shadows, the thinness of his face and the dark circles under his eyes are obvious, and it’s…uncomfortable to look at. He knows what Boba did, his part in Commander Ponds’s death and the punishment he faced for all the people killed in the crash, but—

Sinker remembers the kid on Kamino, and the glimpse he once caught of him with Jango. Training together, alone in a quiet room when most of the clones were asleep, and they’d looked…close. Close in a way that made Sinker, nameless and identical to every other clone and fresh from getting called a droid for six hours straight by one of the crueler trainers, ache right down to his bones. Jango had put his hand on Boba's shoulder, smiling, and Sinker had turned and left, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as he did.

Jango tried to play both sides, working for the Kaminoans and then working for Dooku. He shot Jedi, challenged Mace Windu, and lost a fight, and Sinker’s always had mixed feelings about it. About everything to do with Jango, mostly, and Boba by extension. There was a time, back when he was a cadet, that he was jealous, but—

It must be a hell of a thing, to be a clone like millions of others, held apart, set aside, told that he’s special but with far too many examples of what he _could_ be. Jango was an asshole to everyone except for Boba, and seeing that constantly—kriff. Sinker wouldn’t be all that stable or reasonable about other clones, either.

It doesn’t make crashing a whole cruiser with thousands of clones aboard sit any easier, but maybe Sinker can understand Boba being conflicted, knowing that.

“Been in here long?” he asks, deliberately changing the subject, and Boba grimaces but doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he says bitterly. “Thirty-six meals, and I've been _good_ , so they haven’t skipped more than one or two.”

About eighteen days, then, give or take. Not as long as he could have been in here, but—too long for a kid, regardless of that kid’s training. Especially because it seems like Boba's been alone that whole time. “Maybe I really should have spit blood all over Pre’s fancy boots,” Sinker mutters, and Boba snorts.

He looks at Sinker for a long moment, something strange and twisted in his face, and then demands, sharp, like it’s a challenge, “Why didn’t you? Too risky for a _clone_?”

Sinker rolls his eyes. “Careful,” he says. “Or you’ll start to sound like the Original.”

“He wasn’t _the Original_ , he was my dad!”

“He was the template for us.” Sinker raises a brow at Boba, not willing to be intimidated by a thirteen-year-old, even when he’s bristling. “He might have been your dad, too, but for the rest of us? He was just a genetic donor who made our lives miserable.”

Boba hesitates, just slightly, and Sinker can see him swallow. “You're just _clones_ ,” he says viciously. “It doesn’t matter what he did to you.”

There's something cold lodged under Sinker’s ribs. Cold and angry, with an edge of his own viciousness, and the kneejerk reaction is to tell Boba that he’s a clone too, to cut into those insecurities and lay them bare and bleeding. Jango saw clones being decommissioned and didn’t do anything to stop it. Jango oversaw their training, looked on when some of the trainer beat them. Saw them all as children, genetically identical to Boba, and then walked away, leaving them to be raised to die. Sinker wouldn’t have expected him to _change_ any of that, but—there wasn’t even an acknowledgement that he had created a slave army. Not even a _little_.

Just flesh and blood droids, and Jango had never even _looked_ at them.

“Yeah?” Sinker asks quietly, and meets Boba's defensive, furious gaze across the cell. “Then why’d you try to stop Aurra Sing from shooting Ponds in the head?”

Boba flinches, full-body. He buries his face in his arms, stiff, practically trembling, and doesn’t answer.

Sinker watches him for an instant, then sighs. He pushes himself up, crossing the cell in a few steps, and drops down next to Boba. There's no reaction, so he hooks an arm around Boba's shoulders, pulls him in against his side, like he did for Comet after Comet’s first mission went tits-up, and just stays like that, staring up at the dark ceiling. Weighs his words for a long time, considering them, and then finally, deliberately says, “Thank you for that, you know. Ponds was loyal. He would have hated it if a brother were the one to kill him.”

“What does it matter?” Boba asks viciously. “He was still _dead_.”

Sinker shrugs. “We don’t get a lot,” he says quietly. “Getting to die in a way that’s not as terrible as it could be? Means something.”

Boba doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at him. But he moves. He shifts slightly, leaning into Sinker a little, and swallows. “He was scared,” he says, and his voice is small. Smaller than Sinker might have expected, except—Sinker knows how guilt works. “He didn’t want anyone to see it, but—his face—”

His face was Jango's, and Boba could read it.

He doesn’t say that Boba got even. Doesn’t say that he took away dozens of people Mace Windu cared about, and balanced the scales. Boba's already feeling guilty, and maybe he won't ever _forgive_ General Windu for killing Jango, but—Sinker gets the feeling he’s seen what revenge leads to.

“Yeah, well, death’s terrifying,” Sinker says wryly. “Not like clones have somewhere to go, after.”

Boba hesitates, then looks up, and there's a frown on his face. “What?” he says. “But—the trainers told you about the _manda_ —”

Sinker shakes his head. “Might not be for us,” he says. “It’s the Mandalorian place of death, but Jango never acknowledged us as Mandalorian, and—you know how it goes.”

Boba doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. A Mandalorian raised without ties to the culture is soulless. The clones got the fighting skills, the language, but—everything else they had to piece together for themselves, and there was no actual connection beyond that. It’s one of the reasons a lot of clones swear by the Force, or to the Force. The Jedi say everyone joins it, that they don’t have to be special, don’t have to follow tenants or worry about not being allowed in when they die.

It means a hell of a lot, given all the things the clones don’t have, to know that there might be something after.

“So thank you,” Sinker says deliberately, tightens his arm for an instant and then lets it slide away, straightening. “I don’t know all the details, but—just for that, when you could have made it worse.”

Boba glances over at him, then looks away, arms still wrapped around his knees. “Why are you in here anyway?” he asks abruptly. “What’s Pre Vizsla want with a clone?”

Sinker snorts. “Someone to monologue at about the glories of his father?” he asks dryly, and when Boba pulls a truly disgusted face, he laughs. “Current odds are on punching bag, but he started off accusing me of being a spy and then moved on to accusing me of plotting to assassinate him, so we’ll see how far he gets by the time they drag me out to shoot me.”

“ _Are_ you?” Boba asks warily. “Here to assassinate him?”

Sinker shakes his head. “I ran into someone from a clan sworn to House Vizsla,” he says. “She helped me out, but I guess Vizsla got wind of it.”

Boba wrinkles his nose. “I was trying to meet someone from Clan Saxon,” he says. “One of Dad’s old friends. But Gar Saxon was waiting instead.”

Ursa used that name too. She’d had a meeting with Clan Saxon that he and Savage had crashed, and then Gar was the one to alert Pre. Sinker pauses, a little startled by the lines that are suddenly drawing themselves in his mind, and looks from Boba to the door. The guard, Rook—Sinker knows he’s right about that clan’s former connection to the True Mandalorians. But they’re _here_ , serving Vizsla even if they don’t seem overjoyed about it.

 _The Darksaber belongs to all of Mandalore_ , they said, when Sinker tried to press them. That’s not _personal_ loyalty, but—it’s a connection. It’s a reason to follow Pre Vizsla even if they once followed Jaster Mereel, or Jango Fett. And it’s interesting, really, that Vizsla came _personally_ to see if Ursa really did have a clone hanging around her. Interesting that he nabbed Boba, too, when Boba's just a kid, and was probably planning to get off of Concordia again as soon as possible, given Jango's history.

“Pre’s got the Darksaber,” he says, and it feels like the sudden mental _stillness_ when the sights line up just right. “So what’s he going to do with it?”

Boba casts him a surprised look, then frowns. “Why would he do something?” he asks. “Kryze is already in power, and no one’s fighting her. Pre’s one of hers.”

Sinker doesn’t _know_ enough. He has vague ideas of the political situation on Mandalore, has seen a dry summary or two of how the duchess consolidated power, but—he’s been fighting a war across dozens of fronts, and he’s just a grunt. There hasn’t exactly been a lot of downtime, between the fighting and the situation with Feral. Mandalore is under Kalevalan rule, though, in all but name, and Satine has moved Mandalore’s capital from Keldabe to Sundari, leaving the north of the planet to the clans that live there. Given that the area used to be a True Mandalorian stronghold, Sinker can't imagine the families there have any sort of fondness for the New Mandalorians, especially after Satine had all of the warriors rounded up and exiled, so—that’s logical. But—

It leaves a lot of space for someone with the Darksaber to meet with those clans, gather up influence and people who maybe haven’t let the old ways die as thoroughly as the government says they should. Which would account for a family formerly loyal to the True Mandalorians being in the middle of Pre Vizsla's more devoted followers, and Sinker’s willing to bet that Rook isn't the only one.

“He sure scooped us up fast,” Sinker says carefully, “even if we didn’t have any real idea he existed. Makes you wonder why he’s scared of two people with Jango Fett's face wandering around the world all of the Mandalorian warriors got exiled to.”

For a long, long moment, Boba doesn’t say anything, just watches Sinker with narrowed eyes. “You think he’s planning something,” he says finally.

Sinker gives him a rueful smile. “Lots of coincidences,” he says lightly. “And then there's him waving around the Darksaber in the open, at least enough that other people know about it. Apparently he doesn’t think anyone on Concordia is going to tell the duchess.”

“Who’d they tell? _Kryze_?” Boba asks, unimpressed. “She’s the one who stuck everyone here. And they're _encouraging_ warriors not to have kids, so that the past dies out.”

Yeah, that was about Sinker’s take on it, too. “Makes putting the guy whose father was the leader of a terrorist group that wanted to take over the galaxy in charge of several hundred thousand pissed-off commandos look really stupid,” he says dryly.

Boba snorts, resting his chin on his folded arms, though he’s still watching Sinker. “Pre Vizsla becoming the next Mand’alor is _stupid_ ,” he says viciously.

It is. It’s also kind of gross. They’ll be scrubbing the slime off everything he touches until the end of time, and Sinker wrinkles his nose, trying to think. Mandalore’s declared itself neutral in the war, but—they're right near Separatist space. If Vizsla takes over and decides to weigh in on Dooku's side, especially if he’s got a whole standing army of highly-trained commandos who _haven’t_ given up on their heritage—kriff. That’s a lot of weight on the scales, and the Republic is only just holding on as it is.

But Rook said it, didn’t they? _The Darksaber belongs to all of Mandalore, but Governor Vizsla holds it_. That makes him Mand’alor. But if he _isn't_ holding it, well.

Sinker takes a breath, holds it, breathes out slowly. He’s about to do something stupid, but at least Wolffe and Boost aren’t here to get grey hairs from it.

“Hey,” he says, low enough that it will be hard for anyone watching to pick it up. “When you get out of here, where are you going to go?”

Boba glances at him, then towards the door, just a quick flicker of eyes. “Don’t you mean _if_ ,” he says sourly, but Sinker can see the thoughts racing across his face. “I _was_ setting up a bounty hunting ring on Tatooine, but they probably all found other jobs and left by now.”

Which isn't an answer, but—that’s fine. Sinker just needs to know he’s got a place to go. “Tatooine, huh? Then think if you have the chance you can grab a ship and head that way?”

Boba doesn’t move. “Probably,” he says, slow. “Not that I _can_. We’re in _prison_.”

Sinker gives him a lazy smile. “Yeah, for _now_. But I saw all those ships Vizsla's got, up the stairs and four hallways back. That doorway on the right? Lots of fancy ships to choose from, and it just made me think.”

There's no question that Boba gets it. “Yeah, I saw them,” he says, which is close enough to agreement that Sinker smiles. “But why do you _care_?”

Sinker shifts, hums. Stretches out his legs, feeling the press of the vibroblade in his boot that no one bothered to take from him. It’s kind of sloppy. The trainers on Kamino would have tanned their hides for that kind of sloppiness. “You're _ori’vod_ ,” he says simply, and means it. Regardless of his feeling about Jango, mixed as they are, Boba is one of them. “’Course I care.”

Boba watches him for a second, then looks at the door again. “What about you?” he asks. “What are you going to do if you get out of here? Leave Concordia?”

Sinker opens his mouth to agree, pauses, closes it. Savage is still out there somewhere, and he probably won't come after Sinker, but—he’ll want to stay close to the Pykes, in case they pass on word of Maul. The idea that Pre could beat a full-fledged Sith with a history of killing Jedi is pretty much laughable, so Sinker isn't precisely _worried_ about him, but if Sinker really does manage to kick this particular hornet’s nest, Savage is going to need to be warned.

“I've got a friend on Concordia,” he says. “I’ll probably go find him, make sure he hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble.”

Savage is fine, right now. Sinker’s sense of him isn't quite the same as it was before; the anger that’s curled somewhere outside his mind is blunted, quieter, and he’s pretty sure it’s the distance keeping things mellow. Or maybe he got good news about Maul and Feral, and that’s lessening the anger. Either way, Sinker isn't actively concerned for him right now, and there will probably be time to get to him, or send him a warning through their bond at the very least. Just—better to make sure Sinker isn't sending him into hiding needlessly first. He’ll get out, assess where things stand, and then figure out a signal.

“That’s stupid,” Boba says judgmentally, and then, bullish, “Vizsla will just grab you again before you can get away. It’s better to take the same ship. Your friend will be fine.”

Sinker blinks, entirely caught off guard, and looks down at Boba. Boba isn't making eye contact, just glaring angrily at the door, but—

 _Come with me_ , is what Sinker is pretty sure that translates to, after years of dealing with Wolffe at his tetchiest. It’s startling, and just about the last thing Sinker would have expected him to say, especially after…everything. But it makes something warm curl through his veins, and with a huff he hooks an arm over Boba's shoulders again, tugs the kid against his side and leans in, thumping their temples together lightly.

“ _Ori’vod_ ,” he says quietly, and one of Boba's hands curls into the thick material of his pants, gripping tightly.

“You're scared of it too, right?” Boba says, almost aggressive, almost challenging. “And you deserted, so—if you go back, you’ll die just like the rest of them.”

“Probably,” Sinker says truthfully. He’s never had many expectations about surviving the war; seeing thirty thousand of their brothers die in one day will do that, apparently. When Boba's grip tightens, though, Sinker just sighs, and says, “Bigger things to be scared of than death, Boba. Besides. What would Jango say if I just gave up?”

Boba snorts, but he doesn’t move. “Why would you care what he would say?” he asks.

Sinker huffs, ruefully amused at himself. “I think I always cared too much,” he admits. “He abandoned Mandalore after Galidraan, but I still—”

“He _didn’t_!” Boba says, loud, and jerks away, rising to his feet with a speed that’s a sharp reminder of the fact that Jango trained him personally. “Dad never abandoned _anyone_! The Jedi handed him over to the governor of Galidraan, and the bastard _sold_ him! As a _slave_!”

Sinker stops short, and—he can't quite breathe. He stares at Boba, at the fury on his face that’s sliding into confusion, and—

“Sold,” he repeats, thoughts twisting until he’s not even sure what’s right. “After Galidraan. But—why didn’t he go back? Why—”

He breaks off, not even sure what he wants to say. Jango vanished for _years_ after the death of so many True Mandalorians. If he were a slave for part of that time, or all of that time, and then he got away, he could have returned to Mandalore. He could have been _Mand’alor_ again.

“Because of Tor,” Boba says, and there's something Sinker can't read on his face. “He had to restore his honor, and kill Tor, but—when he did everything was different. The New Mandalorians had taken over, and they said _he_ wasn’t Mandalorian, so he just left.”

Sinker breathes through the first six things he wants to say, and finally settles on, “Who in their right mind would let the _New Mandalorians_ decide who’s really Mandalorian or not?”

Boba blinks, then snickers. He sinks down on his knees, still watching Sinker, and says with an edge of disbelief, “You didn’t _know_?”

“I don’t think anyone does,” Sinker says honestly, meeting his eyes. “None of the trainers ever mentioned it, even the ones who thought Jango _should_ still be Mand’alor. And—I read a lot about Mandalore, but nothing’s ever referenced that. Just the fact that Jango vanished.”

“Oh,” Boba says, and frowns. “He told _me_ , though.”

Sinker smiles wryly. “Yeah, well, you're his son. That part was never in question.”

Boba looks away again, towards the bare stone of the wall. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, but finally he takes a breath and says, “I thought you were him. When they opened the door. I thought you were Dad.”

Sinker’s still reeling a little from the revelation about Jango, and that doesn’t help. He sighs, reaching out, and Boba looks from his hand to his face and then swallows. Hesitates, and—

A small body hits Sinker’s chest, and Boba wraps his arms around him, gripping desperately. Sinker hugs him back, throat tight, and presses his face into Boba's curls. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and he can hate Jango for how he saw the clones and still regret that Boba lost his father, still hurt for him when he’s so clearly still grieving. “Sorry I wasn’t him, kid.”

Boba doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move, either, and Sinker doesn’t try to let him go.

“They _should_ know,” Boba says instead, stubborn, angry. “ _Everyone_ should know. If they think Dad just _left_ —but I thought he _told_ people and they still didn’t want him to be Mand’alor again.”

“Kriff,” Sinker mutters. “When people _do_ know—” He stops short, the words tangling in his throat as the thoughts connect. “Jango killed Tor?”

Boba lifts his head enough to give Sinker a wary look. “Of course he did. Tor got most of the True Mandalorians killed. He _had_ to.”

But nobody knows that. Pre still has the Darksaber, even though by _rights_ it should have gone to Jango when he beat Tor, and then to Mace Windu when he killed Jango. But Pre is holding it, and that’s why he can maintain power on Concordia. All the warriors, Jango's old commandos among them, see it as a rightful inheritance when it’s _not_.

“Kriff,” Sinker mutters, and rubs a hand over his face. He’s _definitely_ about to do something stupid. But—this feels like a plan. Maybe not a _great_ plan, but it’s definitely _something_ , and the odds of it at least keeping them from being gutted as soon as they step out of the cell are higher than the odds of it failing, so Sinker will take it. “Okay. You saw the ships, right?”

“Yeah,” Boba says slowly. “Why?”

Sinker gives him a crooked smile. “Because that’s our first stop. Get you on a ship and out of here, and then I'm going to make a couple of really bad decisions.”

Boba digs his fingers into his own knees, watching Sinker, and then says, “Or you could come with me. We could—we could be bounty hunters. Dad taught me, and I could teach you—”

Sinker can't help but smile, reaching out and brushing Boba's curls. “How about,” he says quietly, “I take you up on that after the war?”

Boba's expression twists. “You're probably not going to _have_ an after if you go back,” he says viciously, and knocks Sinker’s hand aside.

Sinker doesn’t let himself react, doesn’t let his flicker of regret show through. “Maybe not,” he says. “But you’ve got a couple million little brothers who _will_ make it, and any one of them—”

“Any one of them isn't the same as _you_!” Boba snaps, and then stops short, like he’s been caught.

Unable to help it, Sinker laughs, leaning in to tap their foreheads together. “No,” he allows. “But—look for Boost. Or Waxer. Waxer’s my batchmate, and he’ll help you. Boost is…he’s survived a lot. I'm sure he’ll make it to the end of the fighting.” Another thought strikes, and Sinker hesitates, then lifts his head. Closes his eyes, feeling out the edges of the bond between him and Savage, and—

“Or Savage Opress,” he says, and just…thinks about Savage as clearly as he can. Loudly, the way he did when he wanted to distract him with images of Feral. Somewhere distant, outside of his direct awareness of himself, he can feel a flicker of attention, blunted by distraction, and _that_ at least doesn’t seem worn down by distance. A little confused, Sinker frowns, but takes it without comment. He has no idea how he’s supposed to _talk_ over the bond, or convey something as complicated as _if I send my little older brother to you, will you keep him out of trouble_ without any words. But… _hiding?_ is a good start.

There's a deliberate pause, a sense of something that Sinker almost wants to call chagrin, and then a very noticeable lack of any sort of answer.

“Oh, you bastard,” Sinker mutters, opening his eyes. Apparently he’s _not_ going to send Boba to Savage, because Savage is somewhere doing something just as ill-advised as Sinker is contemplating. And he’s not saying what, so Sinker has no way of knowing.

“ _What_?” Boba demands, offended and starting to bristle.

“Not you,” Sinker says, raising a hand. “Come on, we should get moving.”

“Get _moving_?” Boba repeats, frowning. “We’re in a _cell_.”

“I noticed,” Sinker says dryly, and unlaces the top of his boot, pulling the vibroblade free. “But that gap between the door and the frame should fit a knife just fine, and I bet the lock’s something I can cut through.”

Boba looks from the blade to Sinker, and smirks. “No bet,” he says. “But _I_ bet Pre screams when he sees you.”

Sinker laughs. “That one I’ll take,” he says, and holds out a hand. Boba grabs it, when Sinker rises to his feet, he pulls Boba right along with him.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record:
> 
> No, I have not forgotten the other characters/plotlines. Yes, I plan to return to them. Yes, Feral is still the main part of this story. Sinker and Savage's part of the plot is getting to a point where I can wrap it up, and that will make it so I don't have to constantly switch back and forth between three different storylines, so I'm going to get it to a point where things are mostly finished and then go back to Wolffe and Feral and the drama/chaos trio.

Savage is woefully out of practice at sneaking anywhere.

He used to be good at it, once. Brother Viscus held a grudge against him and Feral in particular that meant slipping around the edges was often their best way to stay out of trouble; Viscus couldn’t _do_ anything to them, because Mother Talzin wanted her line continued, wanted to be sure that Savage and Feral were there when her favorite Nightsisters decided to bear children, but—he could make life unpleasant, and did. Staying out of sight when he was in his worst moods was always better for them.

Savage as he is now, though, isn't used to subtlety. Ever since the ritual, he’s been learning to use his new size to his advantage, how to inspire fear, take that fear and grow it. There was no hiding from Dooku, and after Savage escaped and found Maul, there was no need. Feral, when Mother Talzin returned him to them, was the subtle one, the quiet one, exceptionally good at getting in and out without being seen, and Savage hadn’t had to be concerned about old skills fading.

There are guards, though, and as tempting as it is to charge straight through and destroy them all, thought of Sinker vulnerable and already injured stays Savage better than any hissed reprimands about restraint from Maul.

Tucked back in the shadows, Savage stays as still as possible, watching the rotation of guards along the edge of the governor’s complex. The sprawling building has tight security despite its size, more people on watch than Savage expected, and he frowns, eyes following a woman in yellow and grey armor along the top of the battlements, coming towards his hiding spot. She’s heavily armed, watchful, and after a few yards a man in red and black armor joins her, helmet under one arm. He says something Savage can't hear, but it makes the woman laugh. Not a kind sound, Savage thinks, eyes narrowing. There's an edge to it that makes him think of the Nightsisters, and his hand curl into fists as he breathes out.

The ledge of stone Savage managed to tuck himself back in is just close enough to hear their voices as the pair pass below him, and Savage catches a chuckle, then the woman as she says, “—get a few more and it will be just like old times, Dred.”

“Making that one go a few rounds would be more interesting than making the trainees fight,” the man agrees, cruel, and Savage can feel the dark amusement, the slant of his thoughts. A flicker of memory, of an arena, of a figure that looks like Sinker, but—young. Like the Trials, Savage thinks, and the familiar rage curls. With clones, but—similar. Too similar.

Savage eyes the distance between himself and the battlements, the distance to the next guard, and sets his jaw. Too far. He’s angry, and he wants to grab them both, drag them back, or ignite his lightsaber, or—

He doesn’t. Breathes through the urge, and just the fact that he _can_ is beyond anything he thought he’d have again.

The rage is still there. Savage still gets angry. It’s still _hard_ , controlling himself. But at the same time, it’s a hundred times easier than it was, because there isn't some vast flood that wipes away all sense of caution, blots out his goals and swallows him completely. The fueled rage that Mother Talzin created and Dooku cultivated is there, and waiting, but the cool barrier of Sinker’s mind around his own gives Savage distance. He can see it, rather than being swallowed by it, and even if he still has to mind his grip, be careful of his strength and what anger comes from _him_ , that’s…normal. Familiar.

Savage spent thirty years learning to control himself, to keep from hurting those he loved. Talzin and Ventress and Dooku took that away from him, but—

Sinker gave it back.

Savage watches the two Death Watch members disappear around a long, sweeping curve of stone, then looks back at the windows beyond the battlements. They're high, but that’s not an obstacle; as long as he can get over the edge without being seen, he’ll be able to reach them. Getting inside after that will be easy, and he can sense plenty of minds within, but—they're avoidable.

Sinker’s face still aches, and there are bruises down his back. Savage felt them rise, felt the impact just beyond his own skin, and he digs his nails into his palms, watching as another set of sentries makes their way down the battlements. Sinker is hurt, but he still reached out, as clumsy and unpracticed as the attempt was. Tried to check if Savage really was still hiding, and—it’s a bare bit of care, but it still makes something in Savage’s chest feel tight.

Sinker’s trying to protect him. Even during his confrontation with Pre, that was foremost in his mind. The last person who tried to keep him safe, who even _thought_ about it, was Feral.

Savage’s next breath is just a little harder than it should be. Feral is out in the universe somewhere, lost, adrift. He has that clone with him, the one who drugged him, who he _arranged_ his drugging with, but—the last thing he did was stand up to Savage and Maul and their plans, face them down and tell them _no, stop_. Savage knows Feral, knows that he’s going to think they hate him for it, that he’s likely considering it a betrayal. And—it is. Maul likely sees it that way.

Savage doesn’t. Feral was always impossibly kind, careful of other life. Ruthless, when he needed to be, and a cocky fighter, confident in himself, but never unnecessarily cruel. Life as a Sith apprentice never suited him, not without the same sort of breaking that happened to Savage, and Savage would fight to his last breath to keep Feral from suffering that.

Feral breaking ties was…good. Savage is desperate to see him to safety, desperate to make sure that he’s all right, that the Nightsisters haven’t taken his mind again, or his body, but he’s still glad. Through the hurt, the ache of being left, he can be _relieved_ that his little brother is away from the anger and pain of a Sith’s life. Feral never wanted power, never held onto rage.

Even before Ventress, Savage always did. Power to save himself, power to save Feral. Power to tear the Nightsisters down and slaughter them and make sure none of them _ever_ touched Feral. To make sure none of them ever touched _him_.

He grips the stone, rises. There's fury vibrating through him, but—it’s his own. Forged by memories of being _chosen_ , and then years later Ventress's nails on his skin, the way she pinned him and _laughed_.

Rage bleeds red, bleeds _pain_ around the edges, and Savage growls, _reaches_.

Sinker meets him immediately, without hesitation. Doesn’t flinch from the rage, and Savage is in his thoughts, _knows_ with an immediate and almost jarring certainty that Sinker isn't scared of him. It’s…world-shattering. Gently, carefully world-shattering, the way those cool, steady thoughts ebb around his own without pause. Like a quake right through everything Savage has gotten used to, making the foundations tremble.

 _Concern_ , Sinker is feeling. _Concern, hide, keep-your-head-down_ , and he starts to recite the ship codes—

Savage slides into his thoughts, away from the memories of Ventress and the other Nightsister. Feels Sinker’s stumble, his bracing hand on a wall, and then there's instantly Sinker’s full attention on him. It’s like a cool wind from the mountains, or the freedom of open space at his feet, and Savage pushes deeper, settles in the well of Sinker’s fearlessness, and that care winding around him feels like the press of their foreheads on the bed, the brown of Sinker’s eyes staring up at him without flinching and the stroke of callused fingers over his horns.

 _Worry_ rises, and Savage breathes through it, thinks of that soft touch on his horns. Lets himself think, just for a moment, of Sinker by the lift platform, off-balance but still staring up at him like Savage was impressive, but not to be feared. Appreciation, without the possessive edge of the Nightsisters touching, _taking_ , and—remembering that such a thing exists is…good.

 _Hey_ , Sinker thinks, one word managing to come clear in the unpracticed curl of his thoughts. It’s a question and a comfort all wrapped into one, and Savage closes his eyes, feeling the ache in Sinker’s face, the bruise-bright feeling of having gotten a fist to the gut. Not things Savage can fix, but—he wants to.

Maybe that’s one of the most startling things.

There are too many things Savage could say, so instead of trying to pick one, he presses an image of the pair of Death Watch members across the bond, carefully divorced from context. The reaction is instantaneous; one glimpse of them and Sinker goes _cold_ , an arctic sort of fury that flares for an instant, like a glacier cracking, and then goes still and predatory.

 _Dred Priest_ , Sinker thinks, and then Savage gets an image of clones fighting, _young_ clones, with bodies on the ground. Sinker’s thinking of fighting rings, and clones being forced to fight each other, and a grief and anger and helplessness that’s entirely, bitterly familiar.

Savage tucks the name away, down deep where he won't forget it. Hesitates for a long moment, and then offers, in return, a glimpse of the Selection in the village, the moment in the arena as Ventress stepped forward, and the fear Savage had felt as he realized that with him and Feral both chosen, only one of them would survive.

Sinker’s grief sharpens, anger sliding sideways, shifting. For Savage, rather than for clones dead in a ring, full of anger that’s not _at_ Savage, but—

 _For_ him. Savage almost doesn’t know what to do with that.

There's nothing about Savage that’s gentle anymore, not without all of his effort, but he still tries. Reaches, and blunts the physical pain Sinker is feeling as best he can, and it’s not a solution, but it’s _something_. Something he can offer, here and now, when he doesn’t have anything else. And there’s a flicker of relief, then humor, then _warmth_ , and Sinker thinks clearly, deliberately, of the feeling of waking up with Savage leaning over him.

Not because it’s a threat. Not because he was alarmed, or startled. Because he felt _safe_ , even with a stranger at the door.

He thinks of Savage pulling the cloak over his shoulders, the hood up over his head, and it was a brusque gesture, an attempt to hide Sinker’s face before he opened the door, but—in Sinker’s memories Savage’s hands are gentle. The brush of them against Sinker’s skin is warm, and nothing else.

It’s very, very hard for Savage to breathe.

There's a flicker of warm amusement, then a thought that’s a vague question without words or terms. Savage could ignore it, like he did the last one, avoid an argument, but—

He weighs the options for half an instant, and then opens his eyes, letting Sinker see what he’s seeing. There's an indrawn breath, a flicker of confused vertigo as Sinker’s mind tries to process two visual images at once, and then a wash of surprise and humor. Sinker recognizes the view, and he doesn’t yell, doesn’t tell Savage to turn around and go back into hiding.

 _So much for my first time telling you what to do_ , he thinks, and then considers the battlements again, attention focusing not on the area where Savage is, but further north, where the complex is dug into the hillside. A little confused, because that part at least looks impenetrable, and it’s heavily guarded, Savage looks in that direction, lets Sinker see a little more of it.

Sinker isn't thinking about getting over the battlements there, though. He’s thinking of a dark cell down several flights of stairs, ground levels and then sublevels below them. Thinking of mines, and tunnels, and Vizsla playing governor for the rulers on Mandalore while he gathers an army in the name of the Death Watch. Not subtle, not quiet, but—still hidden from anyone who might stop him.

Clever, Savage thinks, with a flicker of amusement. Sinker is…very clever, and always thinking. He probably made for an insufferable, exhausting child.

Surprise rises as Sinker catches that thought, then slips into rueful humor. Thinks of regulations, and drills, and plain, empty white places, row after row of identical faces without any names attached. Fear, because some clones who didn’t meet standards were taken away, flanked by guards, and never came back.

No room for an insufferable, exhausting child. No room for a child at all. Just a soldier, bred and raised for one purpose.

If Savage were ever to meet Jango Fett, he thinks, and digs his fingers into stone, one of them wouldn’t be leaving the confrontation alive. He might not be able to walk into the Nightsisters’ temple and kill every one of them in their beds, but—one Human he could manage, no matter how dangerous.

There's a nudge that pulls him out of his thoughts, the mental equivalent of a hand on his elbow. When Savage refocuses, it’s to Sinker thinking about the black lightsaber Vizsla was using, blade glowing even in the sunlight. The image has _weight_ to it, an attached importance that Savage doesn’t understand but can still feel even so. Sinker is _thinking_ about it, in a way that’s very much like a sniper taking aim, and Savage frowns, considers. A distraction would draw guards away, but the wall is too open, too vulnerable for one attacker. Savage wouldn’t be able to hold out long enough for whatever Sinker is planning.

There's another concern, too. Savage thinks of Vizsla's strange lightsaber slicing right through Sinker’s blaster, feels Sinker’s rueful flicker of acknowledgement. He know precisely what a lightsaber can do, the dangers of facing one without a decent defense. Even so, he’s not wavering, and Savage grimaces, reaches up to tug on his horns. Without a shield, without a good weapon, Vizsla is too dangerous. Sinker won't be able to take the blade.

But—

A flash of yellow and black catches Savage’s attention, and he looks down to where a familiar figure is just rounding one of the lower curves of the road. Out of sight of the battlements, on foot, with two other figures beside her that Savage doesn’t know.

Satisfaction flares, and Savage breathes out. A choice to be made, but—this one is easier. He’s already gotten this far, and Sinker’s thoughts are wrapped around his, cool and soothing and bright.

 _Savage?_ Sinker thinks, but Savage ignores him, waiting until the next guard has just passed before he slides out of his hiding spot, leaping down the sheer slope, then to the next outcropping of rock. Then, with a touch of the Force, he drops, landing right in front of the group.

Instantly, Ursa jerks. She has her blaster up and leveled in an instant, a shot in the air, but Savage stops it dead halfway between them and redirects it, catches the other woman’s wrist before she can swing a vibrosword at his head. She snarls, wrenches forward—

“Wait!” Ursa says quickly, and grabs her arm, pulling her out of Savage’s grip and back a step. The other unfamiliar woman, in the same blue armor as the first, hesitates before she takes her shot, and Ursa raises a hand to stop her, looking up at Savage.

“You know,” she says. “That Vizsla took him.”

Savage inclines his head. “I was watching, but he told me not to interfere,” he says, and Ursa frowns faintly, but nods.

“We’re going to try to stop the governor from executing him,” she says, and there's steel-bright determination in her voice. “Lady Bo-Katan can reason with him, and she agreed to help.”

Savage flicks a glance at the woman with the vibrosword, and he can't make out her expression past the helmet, but—she feels wary, combative. Like she’s prepared to swing at him even now. There's an edge of willingness to listen, though, and after a long second she lowers the blade, re-sheaths it.

“Even if he’s the leader of House Vizsla, Pre shouldn’t have any say in the function of sworn clans,” she says coolly. “Even if the problem is a clone.”

Savage’s hands curl into fists, but before he can react, Ursa takes a step between Bo-Katan and him. “Are you here to rescue Sinker?” she asks, meeting Savage’s gaze squarely.

Savage snorts. “He rescued himself,” he says, because that much was clear. Sinker isn't imprisoned, isn't being held; Savage would have noticed that. “He’s going after Vizsla.”

The third woman tenses, her attention going to Bo-Katan immediately. Ursa looks, too, worry curling through her, dismay rising—

Bo-Katan folds her arms over her chest. “A clone won't be able to beat Pre,” she says sharply. “He’s just going to get himself killed.”

“He beat me,” Savage says, and—it’s true enough. When the Nightsisters took control of him, Sinker did beat him, and going by how much he learned about _how_ to fight Savage from just a handful of moments as opponents, if they ever do have to fight again, Sinker has decent odds of winning outright.

He can practically _feel_ the way Bo-Katan’s brows rise, the way she looks him up and down, assessment that settles into amusement. “You're a Dathomiri warrior?” she asks.

Savage doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to admit to anything, or let them know anything about him, but—if this is enough to get her on his side, he’ll do it. “A Sith,” he says curtly, and Bo-Katan stares at him for a long, long moment.

“What is a Sith warrior doing with a clone?” she asks coolly. “I thought clones served the Jedi.”

Savage can't help the growl that rumbles up through his chest, though it makes the third woman twitch back a step, blaster rising again. “He doesn’t _serve_ me,” he bites out. “He’s _mine_.”

There's a pause, and then Ursa smiles. Savage can feel it, the thread of warmth, relief. “Lady Bo-Katan,” she says quietly. “Anyone with a valid claim can challenge the Mand’alor for the Darksaber.”

Bo-Katan hardly feels _happy_ about those words, but she huffs, waves an impatient hand. “Koska, let’s go,” she says curtly, and pushes past Savage. Not admitting anything, but not arguing, and Savage will take it. And beyond that, it leaves him with Ursa, and she’s—easier. Practical, but—she wants to help Sinker, too.

For a moment, Ursa is silent, and then she sighs, pulling her helmet off. She tucks it under one arm, watching Savage, and then says plainly, “I'm sorry.”

Savage blinks, caught off guard.

Apparently able to read that, Ursa smiles crookedly. “Pre found out about Sinker from someone in my clan,” she says. “And I'm the one who insisted Sinker bring you to stay with us in the first place. I thought I could help, but this was because of my actions.”

Savage hesitates, not sure how to answer that. Like standing in front of her in the doorway, he feels…off-balance. Like this is an interaction he once could have managed, but it’s been too many years since he tried, and the instinct atrophied.

“It’s Vizsla,” he finally says. “His doing, not yours.”

Ursa clearly doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t argue. “Pre might execute Sinker anyway,” she says quietly. “Even if I _do_ manage to adopt him into my clan. His position as Mand’alor gives him the right, and there's only so much I can do to appeal it. Lady Bo-Katan stands up for Mandalore’s old ways, but—she might not be enough of a voice.”

Savage grunts, not particularly worried. “That black lightsaber,” he says instead, because the image of it is burned into his mind, a holdover of Sinker’s focus. “You called it the Darksaber?”

Ursa nods, mouth tightening faintly. “Whoever holds it rules Mandalore,” she says, “and all of Mandalorian space. It was Tarre Vizsla's, once, but it’s been passed down through House Vizsla, and Pre inherited it from his father.” She hesitates, and then says, “Pre is dangerous. Sinker _shouldn’t_ challenge him for it, or he’ll be killed. That blade can cut through anything but _beskar_.”

“Not everything,” Savage says gruffly, and unclips the lightsaber from his belt. It’s heavy, far heavier than most lightsabers, but—for someone used to regular weapons, that’s good. The weight will help Sinker adjust more easily. He tightens his grip around the hilt for a moment, because he’s carried this particular lightsaber since he escaped Dooku, through finding Maul and finding _Feral_ and losing himself a thousand times, piece by piece.

But Sinker helped him shore himself up before he could lose any more, and this feels…good. Right.

“Give him this,” he says gruffly, and opens his hand, offering the hilt to Ursa. “It will help.”

Ursa takes a breath, then reaches out, closing her fingers around the dark metal. She lifts it, staring at it for a long, long moment and then carefully slips it underneath the helmet she’s carrying, tucking it out of sight.

“You're going to do something, aren’t you?” she asks. “To draw people away. So that Pre can't duck out of the fight.”

Savage remembers the last fight, Vizsla stepping in at the last moment to claim victory, letting his guards do all of the hard work. It makes him grunt, disgusted, and he says, “If it’s a challenge for something he holds, he should be the one to fight it.”

Ursa smiles faintly, raising her eyes to meet his. “What’s your name?” she asks. “Sinker never said.”

Savage pauses, not sure he should say. It’s giving her an opening, giving away a weakness. If the Nightsisters hear—

But. They’re going to hear about this anyway. Savage already knows that, and chose to come anyway. And if Ventress wants to try and take him again, if she stands in front of him and calls him _mate_ and twists his mind into knots—

Sinker is here. That barrier around his thoughts will hold. Savage can trust that much.

“Savage Opress,” he says, and Ursa nods, gives him a crooked smile.

“It seems like I should know,” she says. “If Sinker’s going to be one of my clan, and he’s yours.”

“Not…owned,” Savage manages to get out, though the curl of that possessive makes something turn over in his chest. Unfamiliar, jarring, like walking a familiar path and finding solid ground where before there was a raging river. But—not unpleasant.

“No,” Ursa agrees, soft. “I see that.”

Savage doesn’t ask exactly _what_ she sees. He’s not entirely sure he wants to know.

Instead of pushing, thankfully, Ursa lets it go. “If Pre doesn’t agree,” she says, “Sinker challenging him is the only option. But if he doesn’t win, Pre will kill him.”

Savage doesn’t pull a face, but—the thought is there. “And you follow him?” he asks. Savage follows Maul, but at the very least Maul cares, in every way he can, and some he’s just learning. And he’s a Sith. Savage wouldn’t expect normal people to follow the same sorts of patterns.

“Clan Wren is sworn to House Vizsla,” Ursa says simply. “We have been for generations. Even if I wanted to change that, Lady Bo-Katan chose me for her Nite Owls, and she follows Pre as well. And Pre holds the Darksaber, so he’s our Mand’alor.”

Only for as long as he holds it, Savage thinks, and breathes out. He sees the outline of Sinker’s plan, even if he hasn’t dug deep enough to see the details. Instead of saying as much, however, he looks at Ursa for a moment, and then says, “You're going to let Sinker challenge him.”

“If it comes to that,” Ursa says, steely. “Anyone who has a claim to the Darksaber has the right to make it known, and by all the laws of Mandalore, Jango Fett _should_ have recognized the clones as his sons. He trained them, oversaw their raising, gave them our language. They _are_ _Mando’ade_. And Jango Fett was the last Mand’alor, so his children have a right to the Darksaber, even if Mereel and Fett never held it.”

It’s too complicated. Savage doesn’t pull a face, even if the thought is there, just nods once. “Sinker will win,” he says, rough, and Ursa smiles faintly, though she looks troubled.

“I hope he doesn’t need to,” she says. “Pre _should_ respect my adoption of him into Clan Wren. But…he’s been known to ignore such traditions before.” Her expression tightens, and she pauses, then says quietly, “He might cheat, too. And—Pre’s been known to kill his own men for failing, or use them as shields. Sinker needs to be careful.”

Like the Nightsisters, Savage thinks, and there's a curl of anger deep in his chest. But—not overwhelming. Because of Sinker.

“I will be there,” he says, and the relief in Ursa's face is easy to read.

“I’ll do what I have to in order to keep my people safe,” she says. “It’s good to know that you’ll do the same.”

Savage hasn’t thought of himself that way in…a very long time. But he breathes in, breathes out, and turns away, slipping back into the tall rocks and thick trees to search for the tunnels.

He wonders, almost furtive, what it would be like to be that sort of person again, now that the rage is finally blunted. Now that Sinker’s mind rests around his like a barrier, like a ballast. Now that he can _choose_ to be that person, and have the freedom to follow that choice.

It’s as easy as making the decision. It’s as hard as following through, not giving up halfway and turning back to his rage. But—

He thinks of Sinker’s memory of his hands, gentle when Savage hadn’t thought he could be. And maybe, in the press of things, that’s a place where he can start.


End file.
